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A Roof Against the Rain 










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A Roof 

Against the Rain 

by 


ELIZABETH HIGGINS 







Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company 
Boston 1938 New York 





Copyright, 1938, by 

ELIZABETH HIGGINS SULLIVAN 


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 


First Edition 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


(&Clfc 115880 ;(V 





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C. C. L. 


a life as rich in achievement 
as it was brief in years 


A Roof Against the Rain 











First Book 







Chapter One 


Old Simeon Goodrich knew it was the end when he 
saw them deployed about his bedside—Dr. Newton, two 
nurses, Judge Ramsey, Mrs. Crowley, Bob Otis. Ramsey 
was his lawyer; Crowley, the housekeeper. Bob was his 
dead niece’s husband, one of these static widowers. Bob 
looked concerned. He had plenty to concern him, now that 
he was about to become the whole works and head of the 
Goodrich chain of ten-cent stores. Over the shoulders of 
fat little Newton and a stocky nurse, Simeon’s eyes rested 
on two oil portraits on the opposite wall—Junior and Ada, 
his children, killed in a car crash, fifteen years ago. Their 
mother’s picture, Meenie’s, was between them; but tall 
Judge Ramsey was planted in the line of vision and Simeon 
only saw an edge of the frame that inclosed Meenie’s fret¬ 
ful little face and drooping apologetic pose. Twenty years 
since Meenie had lain on this same bed—and went out, 
holding Junior and Ada close to her. 

As he thought back, Simeon recalled his own feelings at 
his wife’s deathbed—an outsider, not in the picture at all. 


3 


4 


A ROOF 


She was a sickly woman, always telling him that he’d be 
married before the grass was green on her grave. Well, he 
hadn’t married—he’d fooled Meenie. She had it all wrong 
—no grave, no grass—a marble mausoleum instead. A 
lot of women had tried to get him, for his money, but he 
fooled them , too. After losing Junior and Ada, others 
bobbed up, then, avaricious relatives with an eye to his will 
—cousins, dozens of cousins, swarms of them! He fooled 
them, too; and saw to it that they couldn’t fool him in the 
end with a bunch of shyster lawyers to prove he was crazy 
and break his will. Not a red sou markee could any of his 
kin get hold of now. He wasn’t leaving a will. He was 
leaving everything tied up in trust funds for the Goodrich 
Memorial. The Memorial was one of these welfare centers 
in the slums, founded soon after he had lost Junior and Ada. 
In fact, there were two welfare centers—the Memorial 
proper and the branch house, the Annex. Simeon smiled 
at the thought of such secure repository. Absolutely safe. 
Popular opinion is behind a thing like that, the sentimental 
idealism of John Q. Public, who enjoys seeing the ten-cent 
profits go back to the poor,—and the relations whistling 
for them. Almost finished now, Simeon thought. He was 
going to the mausoleum, with no expectant heirs rejoicing 
at his exit. No crocodile tears on his coffin. Everybody, kin 
included, knew damned well where the Goodrich wad was 
already located. 

Of course, Cornelia Cromwell was in for the time of her 
life from now on, cock-of-the-walk at the Goodrich Me¬ 
morial. Great God, that woman, Cornelia! She was presi¬ 
dent of the Memorial Executive Board. Simeon hated her 
and respected her. In his life’s experience, she was the one 
thing he had never been able to master. Nothing mastered 


5 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

her. The Executive Board members were just so many planks 
for Cornelia to walk on. She had the back of a Tammany 
sachem, the front of a Methodist bishop. And clever as hell. 
The man for the job ahead of her. There was another, too, 
of like stripe, Annie Elliot at the Annex. The two god- 
damnedest females that ever got hold of power, and each 
hating the other. Imagine Elizabeth Tudor, with Catherine 
the Great her rival across the border. 

Well, let them go to it. Both hellions. What did he care 
so long as the Memorial and Annex accomplished his objec¬ 
tive, the satisfaction of going to the grave with the say-so of 
who wasn’t to have his money. Bunk, all this social work 
and uplift business. It had bored him from the start, round¬ 
ing up the tenement crowds for clean wholesome recreation 
and self-improvement. All he had ever cared to see of their 
doings was the shows they put on in the Memorial Theatre. 
The dramatic stuff was fun, so rotten he liked it. One of 
the actresses had amber hair—like Ada’s, his daughter’s, 
hair. The tenement girl was very appealing, not much of 
an actress, but damned decorative. Nothing like catchy 
decorations. Get the eye of the public, and the public is 
yours. He had learned that, long ago—it was the show in 
the Goodrich store windows that sold the goods over the 
counters behind them. By George, thinking of that girl 
now, he was going to leave her something! 

Simeon looked around his bed and met a battery of eyes, 
fixed, staring at him. In for the kill, were they? Giving 
them a show, was he? Just for that, they’ll get no show— 
he’d die in private. 

“Get out,” he told them; “get out of here, every jack 
of you! Ramsey, get them away—I’ve had enough of this 
ante-mortem inquest!” 


6 


A ROOF 


As the room cleared, Simeon beckoned his lawyer to him. 
"Ramsey,” he said weakly, "hand me my checkbook. 
There’s a little girl at the Memorial that reminds me of Ada. 
I’ll leave a check for her, a thousand dollars. That’s not 
enough to spoil the kid, but it can get her set up in house¬ 
keeping when she marries a chauffeur or a clerk. She’s a 
smart little girl, the kind that should pick a good man for 
herself.” 

"I’ll fill out the check,” the Judge told him, "and you 
can sign it. What’s her name?” 

"The name’s Mary.” 

"Her last name?” 

"That’s slipped me. But you can place her—light brown 
hair and eyes,—blondish—very pretty, the theatre you 
know—she takes part in. . . .” 

The voice failed to a murmur, and old Simeon Goodrich 
met death with a twisted smile that told his lawyer nothing. 

Ramsey laid the checkbook back on the bedside table 
and called in Dr. Newton for a final service to a patient 
whose death had the same brittle quality as his living. A 
vision of tomorrow’s obituaries rose before the lawyer. The 
press, he knew, would chronicle the passing of a great 
philanthropist—a big heart that had ceased its benevolent 
beating! What bunk would be printed at old Simeon’s 
exit—padded, bolstered, synthetic! 

Downstairs, in the library, the Judge found them as¬ 
sembled: Bob Otis standing in front of the mantel; Cor¬ 
nelia Cromwell posted by a window, looking out absently 
on Riverside Drive; Old Abner Johnson, asleep in Simeon’s 
chair at the roll-top desk that clashed harshly with the 
colonial pieces poor Meenie had collected. Of the three, 
old Abner was the only one who really cared. When he 


7 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

woke up, he would cry and shed a few honest, senile tears. 
Before the old fellow had become a doddering, repetitious 
chatterer, he had been a crony of Simeon’s. But Goodrich 
friendship was as peculiar as all Goodrich attributes—too 
brittle to be bored with Abner in his failing years. 

"Is it all over?” asked Mrs. Cromwell, turning from 
the window at Ramsey’s entrance. 

"Yes, Cornelia, all over; Simeon has just passed away.” 

At that, she crossed the room, wakening the sleeper. 
The old man was her uncle, and very much under her 
thumb. Abner, too, must soon pass on and leave a goodly 
portion of the world’s goods. His heirs-at-law were 
Cornelia and her cousin, Herbert Johnson. The blood be¬ 
tween them was thin as water—but turbulent water, boil¬ 
ing, poisonous. At present, Herbert was in the discard. 
The Judge knew. Only last week, he had drawn up Ab¬ 
ner’s last will, entirely in Cornelia’s favor. The legal man’s 
lips straightened at the recollection—this business of piling 
up a tower of money! It seemed so grim, so ghastly com¬ 
ical—money, this short tenure of possession. 

"They’re all gone now,” Johnson sobbed. "Alone, left 
all alone, the last of my generation.” 

Ramsey noted the woman’s pose, an attitude of sym¬ 
pathy, one hand on the old man’s shoulder, the other with 
handkerchief in seemly gesture. But behind it the lawyer 
detected no tears. From now on, the Goodrich Memorial 
was Cornelia’s realm, hers to govern without interference. 
Bob Otis’s hands dug deeper into his pockets, his gaze fall¬ 
ing to the tiles about the mantel. Ramsey wished he could 
have caught what was behind the Otis eyes. This was 
Bob’s great day too; he was no longer a big man’s man; he 
was the big man himself now, sole head of the Goodrich 


8 


A ROOF 


system of ten-cent stores. What a setup it was: old Abner 
in tears; Bob Otis with his feet glued to the tiles before the 
mantel; Cornelia moving to the desk to jot a few hurried 
memos in her pocket diary. Upstairs, Simeon, waiting for 
the mortician. And himself, backed up against shelves and 
shelves of Congressional Records. What on God’s earth 
had possessed Simeon to accumulate all these Government 
documents? Probably a Goodrich idea of decorous lining 
for library walls. 

The memos jotted down, Mrs. Cromwell summoned Mrs. 
Crowley. "I’m utterly exhausted,” she told the house¬ 
keeper. "Please serve tea, here in the library—and sand¬ 
wiches. You have a baked ham, haven’t you?” 

"Indeed, I have, ma’am; spiced, delicious, a Smithfield.” 

"Then, bring in the ham, I’ll slice it—and see the knife 
is quite sharp. And gluten bread. And an electric toaster, 
I prefer my toast fresh from the grill. A little watercress, 
hearts of lettuce, and some cream cheese. And don’t forget 
a little Bacardi rum for the tea, Mrs. Crowley, please.” 

Great God, they were going to eat! Ramsey recoiled. 
Upstairs, over their heads—Simeon, death, morticians! 

But Cornelia, he knew, would do the food ample justice 
—a tall, lank female, the lean type that may eat its head 
off without gaining an extra pound. All the years he had 
known her, since her girlhood, she had appeared neither 
younger nor older—always the same rangy, rawboned 
article. She had the face of a Siouan Indian, but it was a 
warrior’s, not a squaw’s. Then, the sentiment in Ramsey’s 
hard-boiled make-up came suddenly to the fore—the tene¬ 
ment girl, this Mary, had taken hold of his imagination. 
She must get her thousand dollars, paid from the Emer¬ 
gency Fund, one of the various endowments of the Good- 



AGAINST THE RAIN 9 

rich Memorial. Fortunately, the Judge was a member of 
the Executive Board, in a position to make the matter a 
Board issue. 

"Cornelia, there’s a subject we might just as well take 
up now,” he approached Mrs. Cromwell. "Just before 
Simeon died, he wanted to leave a check, a thousand 
dollars, to one of the tenement girls at the Memorial. I have 
had a trust imposed on me; Simeon’s dying wish must be 
respected.” 

"But, Hector, who is the girl?” 

"Simeon couldn’t recall the name further than Mary. 
But he said I could place her. She takes part in the dra¬ 
matic affairs, she’s pretty, blondish, brown eyes; she re¬ 
minded Simeon of Ada. You remember Ada Goodrich’s 
hair, rather remarkable as I recall, not exactly gold, not 
exactly red, wasn’t it?” 

"I place the girl, it’s Mary Boots. I recall Simeon’s ask¬ 
ing me about her after we produced 'Outward Bound’— 
she was Ann. She did poorly in the role, indeed, very 
poorly.” 

"But very pretty, isn’t she?” 

"Men might call her pretty—you use that word so in¬ 
discriminately, Hector, a blanket term to cover everything 
that catches your eye.” 

"Then, she isn’t pretty?” 

"No,” Mrs. Cromwell corrected with her habitual ex¬ 
actness; "Mary Boots is beautiful. We worry about her at 
the Memorial, afraid something very unfortunate may hap¬ 
pen to her yet. She is far too attractive and besides, she is 
vain. She dresses extravagantly, quite above her station.” 

"Suspiciously so?” asked Ramsey. 

"No, I had that investigated and found out the Boots 


10 A ROOF 

girl buys her things second-hand; exclusive models, usually, 
from Lucia Cutting’s 'Carry On’ Shop.” 

"Oh, yes, Lucia’s pet charity where Park Avenue ward¬ 
robes relieve their over-pressure, isn’t it?” 

"And I don’t approve of it—people should dress to their 
station, Hector.” 

"But this Mary works, doesn’t she?” 

"Yes, a typist.” 

"For the United Can, I suppose?” Ramsey smiled with 
his question, a safe supposition—nearly everyone in the 
Memorial round-up worked for the United Can Company, 
a concern principally owned by the Johnsons and the 
Cromwells. 

"Yes, Hector, for the United Can.” 

"Now that we have Mary’s identity established, the 
next step is an arrangement to give her a thousand dollars 
out of the Emergency Fund. Simeon said that amount 
would not spoil her. Enough to set her up in housekeeping 
when she marries some good fellow.” 

The Cromwell face froze on the instant. "But Hector, 
the Boots girl doesn’t intend to marry some good fellow. 
When I had her investigated, I discovered she has taken 
up with a dangerous character, the editor of 'The Rising 
Sun,’ that frightful Communist publication. His name is 
Stanley Hayden.” 

"Oh, yes, that fellow. I’ve heard of him—rather 
striking looking, a forceful speaker—has quite a following, 
I hear.” 

"Which makes him all the greater menace.” 

"A good way to cure the young radical, Cornie. Let 
him have a comfortable home and a pretty wife, and he’s 
all the likelier to swing over to saner liberalism.” 


11 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"How do you know the Boots girl will put the money 
into a home? Isn’t it far more probable that she will give 
it to this menace and the further spread of Red propa¬ 
ganda?” 

"Never, Cornelia; you’re all off on your psychology. 
No girl who buys the cast-off finery of the rich and 
privileged is Red timber—such raiment would burn like 
the gift gown of Medea into any Communist’s bones. 
No, the girl has a distinct ring in the opposite direction— 
I’d say she’s lower middle class to the marrow.” 

"I know I am right, Hector, and I intend to curb the 
Boots girl at every possible point. Unfortunately, she has 
the trick of making herself popular. Only last week, 
the Girls’ Senior Guild elected her its president. I put my 
foot down on it. I would not permit her to take the 
office.” Mrs. Cromwell rose as she spoke. "Please excuse 
me for a few minutes; I have to call the Memorial. The 
flag must be set at half-mast in honor of poor Simeon’s 
passing.” 

Ramsey watched her exit with twinkling eyes—he was 
in for a bit of grim fun. How it would hurt Cornelia to 
hand out one thousand dollars! But she would have to 
give in, all right. He would make Simeon’s dying request 
an issue, he’d bring it up at each succeeding meeting of the 
Executive Board, until the Cromwell opposition was worn 
down. 

A pretty maid, quite young, wheeled in the tea-wagon. 
Abner Johnson’s eyes lighted at the sight of her, interested 
on the instant. "What’s your name?” he asked the girl. 
"Do you know how pretty you are?” 

The maid was silent, her eyes on the table, her face 
reddening. 


12 A ROOF 

"How prettily you blush,” said Abner; "it almost makes 
me want to kiss you.” 

The doddering soft-head was in a bad way, thought 
Ramsey. Rather a surprise to the family lawyer, this 
exhibition. Cornelia better look to it, the uncle was on 
the marry. 

Bob Otis looked his disgust at the ludicrous spectacle of 
old Abner kissing the maid’s hand, and scowled as his 
eyes met Ramsey’s smile. 

With a coy, over-the-shoulder glance, the maid with¬ 
drew, Abner trailing out in her wake. 

"Judge, I feel you should interfere,” said Otis, his tone 
slightly anxious. "For all you know, that maid might be 
a designing person.” 

"Why should I interfere?” 

"You’re Mr. Johnson’s attorney, Judge Ramsey.” 

"Bobbie, my boy, I’m his legal, not his moral director.” 

"The flag will be set at half-mast for a month,” an¬ 
nounced Mrs. Cromwell, returning to the library. "All 
the Memorial activities shall go on to schedule, however. 
But where is Uncle Abner?” 

"Gone out,” Otis said briefly. 

Ramsey’s grin broadened. "Cornie, your Uncle’s de¬ 
parted on the trail of a pretty maid he is making up to.” 

"Hector, go right after him, bring him back directly!” 

"Go after him yourself; this is not a legal matter.” 

"But he’d resent that, Hector,—my interfering.” 

"By the same token, he’d resent my interference just 
as much.” 

"But you’re my lawyer, you’re Uncle Abner’s lawyer— 
it’s your place to interfere.” 


13 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"No, Cornie, a man has a right to his private life, ir¬ 
respective of attorneys.” 

"Bob, you go; please get Uncle Abner for me.” 

Bob went. 

"Hector, it is hard to tell even to you, but I feel you 
should know. Uncle Abner is developing alarming 
symptoms of an unsound mind.” 

"A hell of a time to tell me, I must say, Cornelia! Why 
wasn’t I told last week, before I drew up Abner’s will?” 

"But he was perfectly sane last week. His dementia, 
or whatever it is, comes over him in spells only. He was 
all right, then, had been for quite a while, nearly an entire 
month. But shocks are bad for Uncle Abner; I’m afraid 
poor Simeon’s death has given him a serious setback.” 

"Does Cousin Herbert know of these spells, these little 
lapses into dementia, or whatever it is?” 

"No, Herbert doesn’t know, and he is not going to 
know, either. I am taking good care of Uncle Abner; 
I am guarding his dignity. I could not think of subjecting 
him to Herbert’s cruel ridicule.” 

"In other words, Cornelia, you’re covering a last will 
and testament, your mind on the day when the estate of 
Abner Johnson goes into probate?” 

"I am. You can see what a frightful thing it would 
be, raising the question of Uncle Abner’s sanity, his mental 
fitness to dispose of his property.” 

Ramsey saw it perfectly. The vision rather appalled 
him, the estate in litigation, dragging through the courts, 
year after year. He was tired now, worn out after a 
quarter century’s legal slaving for the Cromwells and the 
Johnsons. He had given to them without stint. He had 


14 


A ROOF 


saved them everything, their money, their reputations. 
And here he was, in his mid-fifties, drained mentally and 
physically. Ramsey thought of his nervous breakdown, 
four months in a sanitarium—and not yet fully recovered. 
The breakdown followed the herculean task of keeping 
Mortimer, Cornie’s husband, out of Federal prison. A 
close call for Mortimer, all right—the damned crook, 
evading his income tax for three consecutive years. Of 
course, his own attorney’s fee wasn’t so bad. But what 
his income tax had done to that fee was plenty! Ramsey 
cursed anew the irony of his position: having to pony up 
to the Government from what came to him for saving 
Mortimer from just retribution at the hands of the Gov¬ 
ernment. 

Mrs. Cromwell sighed as she laid a large capable hand 
on the lawyer’s sleeve. "Hector,” she said, "Uncle Abner 
seems possessed of a mania to get married.” 

"Wonderful, Cornie, simply marvellous, Abner’s youth¬ 
ful spirit, his virile outlook on life!” 

"But at his age, Hector, almost eighty!” 

"Functioning splendidly, I’d say, a lusty buck for 
his years.” 

The Judge watched her discomfiture as he lighted a 
cigar, a pale roll of denatured tobacco. Since his break¬ 
down, no more fragrant Havanas, no liquor, no more any¬ 
thing to his physical liking. They had cost him dear, this 
house of clients. But he still had the fun of razzing them. 
And they had to take it, all right, as it suited his humor. 
They’d better take it. He was a damned good lawyer, and 
they knew it, the best they could get for their varied and 
dubious purposes. 

"Hector, does it occur to you that some unscrupulous 


15 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

# 

woman might take advantage of Uncle Abner and 
marry him for his money?” 

"Cornie, if I were an unscrupulous woman, I certainly 
would concentrate on him.” 

"Well, it means, Hector, that I must keep a very close 
guard on poor Uncle Abner.” 

"Verily, I say unto you, be vigilant, Cornelia. Remem¬ 
ber, mortal man brings nothing into the world with him; 
he takes nothing out. But occasionally, mortal man plays 
right into the hands of hungry lawyers, only too happy 
to send a big estate into endless litigation.” 

Bob returned with Abner. Mrs. Cromwell took her 
place at the tea table. 

Ramsey took himself to a window. His idle gaze fol¬ 
lowed a robin that hopped across the space of lawn be¬ 
tween Simeon’s gray stone house and the pavement flank¬ 
ing Riverside Drive. Robins and spring again—spring by 
calendar, not thermometer. It was a chilly day, dismal, 
sunless—North River gray, mottled with floating ice. 

"Let us keep a cheerful spirit,” Mrs. Cromwell chirped 
over her cup of steaming tea. "I am sure dear Simeon 
would not wish us to grieve for him, would he, Hector?” 

"A damn Simeon would care, one way or another!” 

Hector began to study the robin. 

"Cornelia’s got a new laundress,” Mr. Johnson informed 
the company; "her eyes are different colors, a blue eye 
and a brown eye.” 

The remark was met with the silence it deserved. 

"Hector, what are you watching so intently?” Mrs. 
Cromwell asked, in an attempt to revive conversation. 

"A robin.” 

"Can a robin be so absorbing?” 


16 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 


"Yes, Cornie, he raises a moot question: where does in¬ 
stinct end and intelligence begin?” 

"An animal hasn’t intelligence,” said Herbert Johnson; 
"he’s got only instinct—read Darwin.” 

"This robin,” Ramsey insisted, "is going through mental 
processes—he taps the turf and listens, then considers. 
Yes, there he concludes that the report of his tap indicates 
animate matter below. He digs in—he’s right,—he gets 
it.” 

"Gets what?” 

"His bread, Cornelia.” 

"Bread! Out of Simeon’s lawn?” 

"His sustenance in some larval form or another.” 

"Instinct,” pronounced Johnson, "blind animal instinct.” 

"Whatever it is, I wish I had it,” said Bob Otis. "I wish 
I could tap a project, and discover if there is sustenance 
under it.” 


Chapter Two 


However moot be the faculty possessed by the robin, 
whether instinct or intelligence, Mary Boots had it, too, 
usually practicable. Her mental equipment was not of a 
very high order—if it were, she would not have sat at a 
typewriter, cutting stencils. But she cut excellent stencils, 
correct, neat; her co-ordination was perfect. 

The girl had had every opportunity to fit herself for a 
better job. The night classes at the Mem (short for Good¬ 
rich Memorial) afforded all the advantages of a first-class 
business college, but Mary had not been overly ambitious 
in a professional way. She had seen no reason why she 
should give her energies to fit herself for a secretary’s job, 
and, too, she had had doubts of her own ability to qualify 
for a choice position in the can works. 

Four months in a Mem commercial class had been enough 
to make Mary a good stencil cutter, which put her in the 
white collar class. And wasn’t she glad to get out of the 
industrial end of the concern, work that had been so hard 


17 


18 


A ROOF 


on her beautiful hands, on her nails in particular? But 
some of the others, the smarter girls and boys, did them¬ 
selves much prouder—they were stenographers, clerks, sec¬ 
retaries, under-executives, things like that. Mrs. Cromwell 
had her good points, she always saw to it that the Mem 
crowd got jobs at the can works, nothing too good for 
those who could rate it. The majority, of course, were in 
the manufacturing end of it. But they, too, had their 
chances—wonderful night courses at the Mem for metal 
workers, machinists, mechanics, lithographers, designers. 
A chemistry course, also. Mary knew all about such mat¬ 
ters. Like the robin, she was conversant with all routes 
important to her own well-being and sustenance. Two 
fellows in the big pay class had fallen hard for her; she 
could marry either one, any time she wanted to. But she 
wouldn’t, because she didn’t love either of them. Thank 
God she wasn’t a gold-digger, ready to sell herself before 
the altar! However, no fellow without the cash would 
ever get herl Heavens knows, she had already seen enough 
poverty. The nights she had gone to bed hungry, a grow¬ 
ing kid with her stomach gnawing like a rat inside her! 

Sometimes, when Mary wakened she heard Papa snoring 
off a drunk that Mamma had paid for. But don’t think 
Mamma Boots ever gave up her pay envelope of her own 
free will. Papa had strong-arm methods; at times, he 
wasn’t above choking Mamma, especially Saturdays, when 
she got home with her week’s pay on her. 

Mary was twelve on one memorable occasion when she 
saw fried chicken, scalloped potatoes, and apple pie, right 
on the table before her. Then, she woke up, and remem¬ 
bered there wasn’t a bite to eat—nothing but some salt, 


19 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

a package of laundry starch, a can of baking powder, and 
a bottle of vinegar in the kitchen cupboard. She remem¬ 
bered, too, that she had wanted Mamma to cook the 
laundry starch for supper. But Mamma was afraid. Much 
better be hungry, she said, than risk getting poisoned. 

Mary sat up in bed and listened. The flat was silent, not 
even the sound of Papa’s sleeping. This must be one of the 
nights when he wouldn’t come home at all, the child con¬ 
cluded, and went to the kitchen, cold as Greenland’s icy 
mountains, as it says in the hymn. The first lump of starch 
tasted queer and wouldn’t go down. On the way to the 
sink for a drink of water, Mary upset a chair in the dark, 
wakening Mamma. Just as well that she did—anything 
tasting so peculiar must be poisonous. Mamma made her 
spit it out, and carried her back to bed. 

"How much money did you make this week?” the 
child asked. 

"Fifteen dollars, dearie.” 

"That could of bought a lot to eat, couldn’t it, Mamma?” 

"It could that. But you just go to sleep, Mary dearie, 
and try don’t think no more about it.” 

"Mamma, why don’t you get rid of Papa?” 

"Laws me, child, how can a woman get rid of a man 
she’s married to?” 

"But un-marry him, Mamma. Ain’t there no way to 
get un-married again?” 

"Yes, there’s divorces, dearie.” 

"Get one, Mamma, please un-marry Papa.” 

"Divorces, dearie, is only for them as can afford it— 
like the wealthy ladies you read about in the papers. What 
luck some women in this world has, able to divorce a man 
and get good alimony from him!” 


20 


A ROOF 


"What’s alimony?” 

"What ladies with wealthy husbands get when they di¬ 
vorce them.” 

"It’s money?” 

"Yes, dearie, heaps of money, when the man is wealthy.” 

"If Papa was wealthy, you could un-marry him and 
gets heaps of money?” 

"Yes, dearie, and I’d see that I got plenty.” 

"Mamma, why didn’t you get a wealthy man?” 

"Land’s sake, child, what chance had the like of me to 
get hold of a wealthy gentleman?” 

"I’m going to marry one, when I get growed up.” 

"You’ll never get the chance to, dearie.” 

"If I don’t get the chance, I’ll be an old maid.” 

"No, Mary, you won’t. You’ll do like all the rest of us. 
You’ll fall in love with some handsome boy and take your 
chances for better or for worse with him; most probable, 
get worse, like I did.” 

"I won’t fall in love,” Mary had cried hysterically. "I 
won’t, I won’t, not with no man that’s not got money.” 

"Girls say such things, dearie. I said ’em myself in my 
day.” 

"I mean it, Mamma; I won’t, I won’t, and I mean it!” 

"But you will, just the same. Now, go to sleep, and 
try and forget about being hungry.” 

Mary was too hungry to sleep, and Mamma was a fool. 
The girl was already convinced that poor darling Mamma 
was a perfect ninny in so many ways. Papa, at least, had 
the sense to get what he wanted, such as it was. Mamma, 
who did want the right things, never got anywhere. Mary 
felt she had Papa’s sense and Mamma’s good intentions; 
she would want the right thing—and she would get it. 


21 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

“Mamma,” she asked, "did you ever try for a wealthy 
gentleman?” 

"Yes, dearie, I did—and I almost got one once. But 
a miss is as good as a mile, and no use crying over spilled 
milk.” 

"How did you come not to get him?” 

"Because such things don’t come in real life. It only 
happens in story books, where a poor girl marries a wealthy 
gentleman.” 

"It’s going to happen for me, Mamma.” The child rose 
in the bed as she spoke and fell to kneeling. "I swear to 
God, the Father,” she improvised from her memorized 
Episcopal catechism, "I swear to the Son, the Holy Ghost, 
the Blessed Trinity, Saint Michael, and all the angels, the 
communion of saints, that I won’t marry no poor fellow, 
never—I swear it by the scared blood of Jesus, shed on the 
cross, I swear it in Jesus’ name, amen.” 

Mamma, a simple soul, had tried to interrupt but the 
vow was concluded, despite all interference. 

"Mary dearie, you’ll never have a day of good luck, 
when you fall in love and break your oath,” Mrs. Boots 
gasped finally. 

The entablature of the Memorial’s front pediment an¬ 
nounced to the world that the institution was "FOVNDED 
AND ENDOWED BY SIMEON GOODRICH FOR 
THE DISSEMINATION OF SCIENCE AND CVL- 
TVRE.” While this spelling of culture with "v’s” had 
never made sense to Mary, she had partaken freely of it. 
Science, however, she had left strictly alone—what need 
had she for Science? What fellow ever fell for a girl be¬ 
cause she was scientific? Looks, of course, came first—and 


22 


A ROOF 


she had the looks. But for the sort of fellow Mary sought, 
there must be more than that—a wealthy gentleman 
wanted a lady. Something fierce, making the grade, the 
time put in on night classes—French, Music, English 
Diction, Correct Deportment, Art Appreciation, Social and 
Esthetic Dancing, all kinds of culture. The dance stuff 
had been great fun. But music was easiest—no trouble 
whatever, not with Mary’s true ear and sense of rhythm. 
Rather well, too, with English Diction, a matter of a good 
memory and Mary’s memory was excellent. That she had 
a correct accent was the most that could be said of her 
French, another advantage of possessing the faculty of 
perfect co-ordination. The other items of culture had 
gone by the board, more or less, excepting, of course, cor¬ 
rect deportment, an essential in the formula of real lady¬ 
ship. 

Mary finished her stencils and gave the sheets the once¬ 
over—not a mistake in her half-day’s work. A glance at 
the clock—12:50. In ten minutes, they would be knock¬ 
ing off until Monday morning. United Can was all right, 
it maintained a forty-four hour week. Not only that, it 
had a fair wage schedule, an annual two weeks’ vacation 
with pay, an old age pension system. But United Can 
wasn’t suffering any on account of being a good employer. 
The business was a gold mine for the Johnsons and Crom¬ 
wells; its stock never fell below 147, not even in the worst 
days of the Depression. 

Mary watched the clock, but not with the impatience of 
former Saturdays. Today, she had no date with Stanley 
Hayden, never would she have another date with him. 
She had thrown him over, quits forever. Somehow, in 


23 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

some way, Mrs. Cromwell must have a system to keep tabs 
on people connected with the Mem, most probably, a 
private detective—the same as the Company had detectives 
to smell out Reds among the employees. Yes, Mary felt 
sure, no doubt but it was her dates with Stan Hayden that 
cost her the honor of heading the Girls’ Senior Guild. 
What a snooper Mrs. Cromwell was, a pussyfooting dick 
on her private staff! No other possible way to have found 
out about the Stanley tie-up! Hadn’t Mary kept those 
dates strictly under cover, not even letting Mamma know 
about them? Didn’t she always meet Stan in a restaurant, 
or a theatre foyer, away from her own neighborhood? 
Didn’t they keep in touch with each other only over the 
phone? Aside from Mr. Carew, the Vicar at St. Botolph’s 
Chapel, nobody knew Stan was the boy friend. 

How long, Mary wondered, before the dick would find 
out she had ditched Stan Hayden and give that woman 
a favorable report on Miss Boots’ private affairs? If it 
would only be soon, before the principal roles were cast 
for the big spring pageant! With the pick Mrs. Cromwell 
now had on her, Mary saw slim chance for an outstanding 
part in the gorgeous spectacle. How she hoped the dick was 
a fast worker, a reliable reporter! God, how she wanted 
to be in on the pageant! 

One point, however, was quite fixed in the girl’s mind 
—the Vicar must not know she had broken with Stanley 
Hayden. Such knowledge would prove fatal to her plans. 
Hadn’t she stepped out with Stan only to get Mr. Carew 
worried about her, for fear she was falling for a free love 
union? Stan preached free love, dead set against legal mar¬ 
riage. Of course, that turned the trick, Mary’s telling her 
pastor all about Hayden’s wanting her for his free-union 



24 


A ROOF 


mate. Not that Stan ever had made such a proposal; in 
fact, he had asked her to marry him at City Hall. All a 
fib, a set-up to scare the Vicar. But it was this scare that 
made Mr. Carew always ready to see Mary when she called 
at the Vicarage. He saw her frequently, alone in his 
private office. If a girl wants to get a man, doesn’t she 
have to see him often? And if she doesn’t see him alone, 
how can she work her appeal on him? As Stan used to say, 
love is much a matter of propinquity—which means near¬ 
ness and often. 

If anybody ever needed propinquity, it was Mr. Carew, 
a bachelor of forty-two, warm-mannered, but cold¬ 
blooded. Women and girls were crazy over him. He was 
tall, handsome, and wealthy in his own right, not de¬ 
pendent on his church salary. Nor did he look anything 
like as old as his years,—a catch if there ever was one. 
The chance of her lifetime, Mary felt, a golden opportunity 
for love and riches together. And wasn’t she crazy for 
him, wild for him, ready to kiss the ground he walked on? 
Of late, she felt sure that Mr. Carew was falling for her, 
falling gradually as a feather. 

Mrs. Cromwell was a liar and a pretender. The contempt 
Mary had for such a character! How that woman had 
covered her move against Mary Boots by holding that a 
girl of eighteen was too young to head the Seniors! Could 
anything be more deceitful, more low-down tricky? Just 
as if the Cromwell person did not know Mary’s true age, 
a matter of Mem record! How outrageous, taking ad¬ 
vantage of the fact that lots of girls claim they are younger 
than they really are, a personal thing that is nobody’s 
business! 

While Mary had been far from truthful with the Vicar 


25 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

in regard to Stanley’s intentions, she had already made 
peace with her soul, with her religious principles. Mary 
did have an inner voice, the mentor of her conduct. As 
the occasion demanded, she could adjust her conduct to the 
inner voice, or the inner voice to her conduct, but to her¬ 
self, she must always be a righteous soul. Mary had a code, 
and she lived up to it, a steadfast character—with the world 
all the better, she felt, if there were more like her. She 
could only do wrong to anyone when the creature de¬ 
served no better treatment—failing to deserve injury, the 
recipient must be benefited by the wrong administered. 

Anyhow, it was no harm to fib to the Vicar—"all’s fair 
in love and war,” as the saying goes. Besides, it was all 
for his best good—didn’t Mary know she simply adored 
him, wouldn’t she make him utterly happy, the most de¬ 
voted wife in the world? 

A few minutes past one o’clock, and Mary and her 
chum, Lily Dorgan, passed out of the General Administra¬ 
tion Building. In the adjoining building, the lithographed 
metal containers and fancier lines of goods were manu¬ 
factured. But that was but a small part of the concern. 
As a manufacturing plant, it was nothing to compare with 
the United Can factories located in New Jersey, Illinois, 
California. But the Manhattan works were very important 
and they had the most skilled workers, all trained in the 
technical courses at the Goodrich Memorial. Mary had 
heard it whispered that Mr. Goodrich did not like this 
turning his Memorial into a technical and commercial 
school for the United Can. But what could he do when 
Mrs. Cromwell once got her mind set on a thing? 

Oh, there were lots of things whispered about, such 


26 


A ROOF 


as the fight between Mrs. Cromwell and Miss Elliot at the 
Annex, bad blood there, the ladies not on speaking terms. 
They fought over better housing locations and Miss 
Elliot’s trying to get model tenements into the Ann district 
where those low-class foreigners wouldn’t appreciate decent 
flats if they had them. Of course, the Mem neighborhood 
was well filled with moderns. And so it should be. The 
Mem neighbors were superior people with good jobs in the 
can works. The Boots family lived in 17 Goodrich Place, 
across the street from the Mem—one of the older model 
tenements, a pioneer in the movement for better housing. 
It was built by a Vanderbilt lady, or one of the Astors— 
Mary could not recall which. So hard to keep track of 
their names, but they were all the grandest people with 
good points which Stanley Hayden wasn’t big enough to 
recognize. As if he could turn her into a Red! The idea! 
His screwy notions! Why, if people who could make 
money were not let make it, where was the money going 
to come from? What money could be expected from people 
who couldn’t make it? 

Within a high wire fence was the Goodrich Memorial, 
an Ionic structure, ruthlessly de-Ionized by its eight 
storys. Formerly an immense brewery the institution oc¬ 
cupied an entire city block. When Mr. Goodrich bought 
the property, it was in bad condition. The boys had 
broken its hundreds of windows for the fun of throwing 
stones at glass targets. 

Before the shut-down, Papa had worked three weeks in 
the brewery—and that was a record for Papa. They fired 
him for going on a souse. Papa liked whiskey, not beer— 
he said that was why the brewery gave him the sack. 
If there was anything Papa could do better than getting 


27 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

himself fired, it was explaining how he happened to lose 
his berth. He was fancy spoken, always calling a job a 
berth. He was English and liked to carry the impression 
that he was a gentleman, but that didn’t mean a thing— 
Papa was not a reliable person, either in what he did or 
what he said. He was out of the picture now, gone to God 
knows where, two years since he walked out on Mamma 
and the family, disappearing like the ground had swallowed 
him. 

When they reached 17 Goodrich Place, Lily hurried up¬ 
stairs to her luncheon, but Mary, mindful of her figure, 
decided to stay out and take a walk instead. She already 
had all the bust and hips her height could carry. In fact, 
she was afraid her bust might be just a trifle too prom¬ 
inent, but fortunately a full figure was quite the fashion 
now. 

The girls going into the Mem were the Cornelias, mem¬ 
bers of a club named in honor of Mrs. Cromwell. One of 
them was getting married soon, and the Cornelias were 
giving her a linen shower this afternoon. The older ladies 
arriving were the German and Irish descents, the "Queen 
Louises” and the "Sarah Currans,” both very nice clubs, 
one named for a German queen, the other for a beautiful 
young lady who was in love with Robert Emmet, a young 
gentleman who got hanged for trying to free Ireland. 
There were no kids playing in the street. But they were 
around, all right, slathers and slathers of kids in the 
Neighborhood—Irish descents are that way, and the Ger¬ 
mans not any different. Mamma, fortunately, had only 
four—Mary, the twins, and Freddy who was now in the 
Elmira Reformatory on a three year stretch for breaking 
into Mr. Adrian’s store and taking the electric fixtures. 


28 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

Fred was that kind of a punk, a thief and a rat from the 
day he got out of diapers. Mamma did have three more 
kids, born dead, between Fred and the twins. But, after 
the twins came, Papa had mumps. Mumps are that way 
in some cases with men, sterilizing them. Thank God for 
the mumps, Mamma used to say, and too bad that more 
married men did not catch them. Sometimes, Mamma said 
things like that, not always refined in her way of speaking. 
But, on occasion, she could be very refined, especially when 
she presided as president of the Mem’s Women’s Club, so 
ladylike you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. 

As the girl crossed the street, she discovered that the 
flag was at half-mast. Some big shot must have died. 
Whoever could it be? The Mayor? The Governor? The 
President? She hoped to God it wasn’t the President— 
what if Relief would be stopped and there was a revolution, 
and the country was turned into another Russia! Mary 
was more against a revolution than ever before, now that 
she had heard Stan Hayden’s screwy talk and seen a lot of 
life in Russia from the films in a Red movie house, Stan’s 
idea of how to pass a pleasant evening. The Soviet girls 
and women looked like Sam Hill—no style, no chic what¬ 
ever. The bosses worked them something fierce putting 
girls on tractors and farm plowing, or working them in 
factories. 

Entering the main foyer of the Memorial, Mary saw the 
death notice posted on the bulletin board. Only Mr. 
Goodrich! She heard the German descents in the Queen 
Louise Room, holding their coffee klatch and listening to 
Beethoven music. But in the Sarah Curran Room, it was 
quieter—the Irish descent ladies were down on their knees, 
saying the Rosary for Mr. Goodrich’s soul. 


Chapter Three 


Mrs. Lantey, who belonged to so many Mem clubs that 
she never had time to attend any club meetings, came into 
the library where Mary sat studying "Vogue.” Mary was 
a bit tired, after several hours at tennis, the best thing in 
the world for a girl’s figure. Mary was practical—even her 
fun must orientate to her chief objective, her own at¬ 
tractiveness, her principal means to a wonderful mar¬ 
riage. 

"Would you believe it,” mused Mrs. Lantey, "if the 
Sarah Currans ain’t praying for his soul; and beat that, if 
you can? The Irish for you, a race that never bit the hand 
that fed them.” 

"I think it’s lovely of the Sarah Currans,” said Mary, 
"though I’m Episcopalian and wasn’t brought up to believe 
in purgatory.” 

"I just seen the new notice posted on the bulletin board 
and it says they’re burying him from St. Botolph’s Chapel 
tomorrow, at 3:00 p.m. And Miss Merton says that SHE 


29 


30 .A ROOF 

says for all the lady club officers to appear at the funeral 
in black dresses.” 

SHE always meant Mrs. Cromwell. Miss Merton was 
the headworker, a mere mouthpiece for SHE’s orders. 

"Mrs. Halligan tells me,” the woman went on, "that 
SHE says it would be respectful to his memory for all 
the lady officers to be in full mourning, wearing veils in 
the Chapel. Mrs. Halligan’s brother, Mr. O’Leary, the 
mortician, will be only too glad for to rent out the veils 
at ten cents per, his usual fee being fifty cents.” Mrs. 
Lantey broke into a hearty laugh. 

"What’s there to laugh at?” 

"Ah, it will be the grand spec-tackle, tomorrow, the 
like not seen since King Solomon’s funeral with 1000 
widows. But that is SHE, all right, not a piece of funny- 
bone in her elbow.” 

"But, Mrs. Lantey, I think it’s lovely, and it couldn’t 
look like King Solomon’s funeral, there aren’t 1000 club 
officers. I doubt if there’s more than fifty at the most.” 

"Brigham Young’s, then. The fun of it is, Mr. Goodrich 
was no chaser after women.” 

Mary walked away, quite disgusted. Mrs. Lantey was 
a very vulgar person and a bad influence on Mamma, who 
was very chummy with her, the Lanteys living on the floor 
below the Bootses. Besides, Mary was glad the officers would 
wear veils; she would look stunning in a veil. As secretary 
of the Florence Nightingale Club, Mary was entitled to 
a veil. The English descents were Nightingales, and the 
Scotch were Flora MacDonalds—each descent taking a 
national heroine. All these clubs were affiliated into the 
Martha Washington Guild, keeping everything patriotic. 
But the Russian ladies weren’t let have the heroine they 


31 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

wanted—Mrs. Cromwell didn’t approve of her, a Red, 
most probably. But they ironed it out by calling their 
club the Queen Esthers for a lovely Jewish lady, mentioned 
very favorably in the Bible. Here was their president now, 
Kathleen Cohen. 

“Where are you going?” asked Kathie. 

“Home,” said Mary. 

“No, let’s see a movie.” 

“I can’t. I bought a swell ensemble at the 'Carry On’ 
Shop, last week, a Paris model. I want to get working on 
it, get it refitted.” 

“Say, I’d hate to tell you where you give me a big pain.” 

“What’s aching you—that I get my things at the 'Carry 
On’?” 

“Sure, it does, how you can do it, putting on your back 
the duds that rich people had on theirs and got tired of.” 

“Don’t talk like a Red, Kathie, or it will get out on you 
that you are one.” 

“Then, there’s plenty good company with me, and you 
the only one in the bunch that wears Park Avenue 
leavings.” 

“Maybe you’d all wear Paris models, if you were smart 
and could remodel them like I can.” 

“Not in a thousand years, Mary Boots, I got more re¬ 
spect for my back than put on what some society dame 
had on hers till she didn’t want it any more. I’d sooner 
wear rags—or go naked!” 

“I’m class conscious as the next one, but I won’t let it 
keep me from a good bargain!” 

With that, Mary walked on and out of the Mem. No 
use to argue with Kathie. Nor argue with any of the 
bunch—they were all butter-fingers—what they lacked in 


32 


A ROOF 


chic they made up by thinking they were class conscious, 
above wearing a dress that came from a Socialite. How 
silly! Didn’t wealthy ladies give their things to the 
"Carry On” Shop out of the kindness of their hearts? 
Didn’t the profits of the shop go to support a home for 
unemployed actresses, a worthy charity? How Red ideas 
were ruining everything! Kathie was most as bad as Stan 
Hayden, who despised all charity as a part of the capitalistic 
system. Of all nonsense, missing swell models and think¬ 
ing it was being idealistic! 

As Mary mounted the second flight of stairs at 17 Good¬ 
rich Place, she heard loud laughter from the fifth floor. 
Her face flushed—Mamma’s voice was the loudest. How 
humiliating, a mother so common, so unrefined, simply 
vulgar! 

The girl hurried up the flights. Awful, such a dis¬ 
turbance in the halls! What would Mrs. Meehan and Mrs. 
Cleary think? Like as not, Mamma laughing at an im¬ 
proper story, very dirty, maybe. And Mrs. Meehan and 
Mrs. Cleary so refined. No one ever heard them fighting, 
nor yelling at the Meehan kids. Not a peep out of that 
home, and Mr. Meehan such a terrible man, often coming 
home soused. Even in summer when the windows were 
open, no one had ever heard Mrs. Meehan or her mother, 
Mrs. Cleary, telling Mr. Meehan what they thought of him. 
Only last week, he came in so plastered that he tried to 
kiss Mamma. Of course, he got a good slap in the face for 
it. Mrs. Meehan, opening her flat door, saw the whole 
thing, right there before her eyes. And what do you sup¬ 
pose she did? She just said, "Good evening, Mrs. Boots; 
good evening, Mr. Meehan”—exactly like that, for all 
the world as if she hadn’t seen him try to kiss Mamma and 


AGAINST THE RAIN 33 

get a slap instead. Mr. Meehan, however, had a big lump 
on his forehead for days afterward—maybe, he fell down 
or bumped into something. But it looked like a wallop 
from a potato masher. 

Mary reached the top floor—there they were—Mrs. 
Lantey, already back from the Mem, and Mamma—and 
such vulgar laughing! 

"Mamma,” cried Mary, "Mamma!” 

They looked sheepish, a dead give-away that it wasn’t 
a proper story. Mrs. Lantey had a lot of them, claiming 
she got them from Mr. Lantey who heard them at the 
Bankers’ Club where he was a steward. Mary did not be¬ 
lieve in low fun—she always took a stand against it, never 
cracking a smile when one of the girls at the can plant 
told a nasty story. 

Mother and daughter entered their flat, furnished ex¬ 
actly to the pattern flat at the Goodrich Memorial, good 
taste at a minimum outlay of money. The flat itself was 
a model, rooms arranged to the square unit, no long hall 
with its waste of floor space. You came into a small entry. 
On the right, the door to the parlor which Mary preferred 
to call the living room, a term of more elegance. On the 
entry’s left, the door to the kitchen, where a half-parti¬ 
tion made a small dinette. Elegance without expense was 
the keynote. So artistic as well; and, next to the living- 
room, the dinette was Mary’s pride. 

The living room was rather narrow, but three nice 
windows gave a lovely view of the Mem building and 
grounds. Each window had a box where Mary grew flow¬ 
ers. The piano was an old square with an antique look, 
a deliciously toned instrument in spite of its age and 
worn yellow keys. The musician in Mary, her true ear 


34 


A ROOF 


and love of melody, prized its tone. She had been trained 
in music, twelve years’ study under the best instruction 
—that was the Mem, with nothing but the very best 
teachers on its staff. 

One of the bedrooms was rented to Mr. Plykas, a sure- 
pay lodger, such a steady man, an orderly at Bellevue 
Hospital. Oh, yes, a Greek, but not as bad as it sounded 
—really a very fine man, respected by everybody. When 
his wife was living, they had the flat across the hall, such 
quiet people. She died about the time that Papa walked 
out on Mamma and all the neighbors said it was all right 
to take him in as a lodger—a little shrimp of a fellow, 
very unattractive, not any person to get Mamma talked 
about. One must think of such things, you know, the 
world so evil minded. Then, too, always get a gentleman 
lodger—so little profit in taking in a woman, an awful 
nuisance, the way lady roomers will do laundry in the 
bathroom and run up light bills with electric irons and 
grills in their rooms. That was him now—no, that was 
he, Mary corrected herself. He, too, had his notions, a 
Socialist; but a religious man, not a bit like a Red. Mr. 
Plykas was a vegetarian as well; a great saving at board¬ 
ing him, meat being so expensive. 

Mary was all for keeping down expenses, but there was 
no getting ahead, which was Mamma’s fault entirely. The 
poor darling could never resist temptation if it was an 
installment purchase. The payments were something fierce 
—a fancy radio, an electric refrigerator, a vacuum cleaner, 
unnecessary things like that. Mary made eighteen a week. 
Mamma’s part-time job at Cohen’s delicatessen store 
brought in fifteen more. To show what a ninny Mamma 
was, she paid an astrologer five dollars for her horoscope. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 35 

Another time, she gave a trance medium three dollars to 
find out if Papa was dead or living. 

In a trance, the medium said Papa was dead and his soul 
wanted to talk with Mamma. 

"When did you die, Billy? I want the exact date,” 
Mamma said to the soul. 

"On November 9th, 1934,” it answered. 

"At what exact time?” 

"Three in the afternoon.” 

"What did you die of?” 

"Kidney complaint,” said the soul. 

"Where was it you died?” 

"In Chicago.” 

"But where at was it you died?” 

"In the county hospital.” 

But it all turned out a fake. When Mamma wrote the 
hospital no man had died of kidney complaint anywhere 
around the date that was given Mamma, and the name 
Boots wasn’t on the records of the Cook County Hospital. 
Mary went to the medium to get back the three dollars. 
But the old fraud had her alibi all ready, claiming there 
are mischievous spirits who do things like that occasion¬ 
ally. Mamma, the ninny, swallowed the story, sure a 
spirit had played a practical joke on her. 

The twins came in presently, Marge and Connie, back 
from the Mem playground—pretty kids, eleven, identi¬ 
cals, one the image of the other. Thank God, they had 
nice legs, long and straight! How Mary wished she had 
as good! But she never had the milk and orange juice 
that the twins got. In her early kid days, she had a touch 
of rickets, the result of poor diet. But Connie and Marge 


3 6 


A ROOF 


came along after Mamma became to assert herself. The 
Mem had that effect on the womenfolks, it put backbone 
in them, the feeling they were organized, that they were 
voters, and Tammany very sweet to them all of a sudden. 
Stan Hayden called the Neighborhood the Matriarchy, 
meaning it was a place where women ran things. As Mary 
well knew, no woman ever needed this change more than 
Mamma, her a foreign-born, English at that. How the 
Old Country-raised women were about their men—just 
something about a pair of pants in the house, any old pair, 
just so it was pants, and the woman was down on her 
knees worshipping! 

Connie and Marge were set to work ripping stitches 
from Mary’s ''Carry On” Shop purchase of last week. 
Children should be trained early, taught to be useful. 
If the kids were not made useful now, how could they 
be any use to themselves, later on? In the kitchen, Mamma 
got Mr. Plykas his breakfast before he left for the hospital. 
But she did no more cooking than necessary—she hated 
to cook at home. A swell cook, just the same; her spiced 
hams, her pastries and salad dressings had a lot to do with 
the success of Cohen’s delicatessen store. The gentleman 
boarder attended to, she did as usual—opened a can and 
called it dinner. 

Mamma talked all during the meal. She started out 
with what Mrs. Lantey had to say about Mr. Goodrich’s 
last illness. She didn’t get around to telling anything in 
particular—one thing would always remind her of an¬ 
other, and that thing of yet another. Mamma was that 
way—she had plenty on her mind, but her mind went 
like a through express train that slowed up for stations, 
but seldom ever stopped at any of them. Dinner eaten, 
she wanted Connie’s help with the dishes. 


37 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"No, Mamma/’ Mary countermanded, "Connie is 
smarter at sewing than Marge and I want her help on the 
ensemble.” 

Then, Marge, who’d rather rip stitches than wash dishes, 
got nervous and dropped a plate on the floor. The plate 
broke. Mamma got mad and gave the poor kid a wallop, 
claiming she did it on purpose. Marge began to cry, and 
Mary and Connie took sides against the mother. In their 
family rows, the Bootses fought with spirit. This dis¬ 
turbance, however, was of short duration, terminated by 
the front doorbell, the tocsin call to peace in any respect¬ 
able household. Just as if they never as much as said 
"Boo” to one another, the family assumed correct decorum 
as Mamma moved to answer the ring. 

But the evening’s caller was only a man from Stacey’s 
Agency, trying to collect on an old bill of Papa’s. The 
bother that bill had been for the last two years, ever since 
Papa had disappeared! But never would it be paid. Why 
should it be paid? If an installment house sold Billy Boots 
a hat, a suit of clothes, a topcoat to run away in, that was 
their concern. 

Come Sunday—and the same old hurry and scurry to 
get Connie and Marge off to Chapel on time. Whatever 
could she do, thought Mary, if Mamma had had a raft 
of them like most the Neighbors? The trouble of twins 
and dressing them alike! There, didn’t she hear the two 
brats at their usual Sunday battle for the cleaner dress, 
the better pair of stockings! No butting into their per¬ 
sonal rows, either—a close corporation, Marge and Connie, 
a unit against outside interference. No keeping tabs on 
them—if they had anything under their hats, they talked 
to each other with their hands in the deaf and dumb alpha- 


38 A ROOF 

bet. No one else in the family knew the alphabet, so 
had no idea of what the kids were saying. 

But that row could not continue, the twins so noisy that 
Mary felt she must take a firm hand. Hadn’t they sense 
enough to know that Mr. Plykas was good pay and might 
change his boarding place if he couldn’t get a good day’s 
sleep after working all night at Bellevue? 

Maybe, afraid to lose a reliable roomer, Mary had slapped 
harder than she had intended. Anyway, the kids made out 
they were hurt, and Mamma stuck in her oar. "Leave 
Connie and Marge be,” she yelled from the kitchen; "and 
don’t think you have the run of the house because you 
make eighteen a week and spend a little of it on them.” 

"A little!” cried Mary. "You call it a little, all I spend 
on them two thankless brats that don’t know what it is to 
feel a drop of gratitude?” At that, she stopped short—she 
had said "them” when she should have said "those.” How 
terrible, forgetting her grammar like that—suppose she 
had made such a slip before the Vicar! Then, too, yelling 
at Mamma, getting common and vulgar! It all went to 
show, the girl cautioned herself, that one must make a 
habit of being a lady, even in family fighting. 

But something about Mamma, Mary could not be dis¬ 
pleased with her for any length of time, so much of the 
baby in her, another kid, younger than the twins in some 
ways. Even with her overweight and forty years, she 
didn’t look her age. Pretty Mamma with her big blue 
eyes and golden hair. Some of the neighbor women were 
mean enough to hint that she used a bleach to keep it that 
color, claiming Mrs. Boots could not have such light hair 
with her dark brows and eyelashes. But it was all natural, 
the way God made her. Before they went to Manchester, 


AGAINST THE RAIN 39 

Mamma’s people had lived in Liverpool. Papa used to say 
that was where the dark eyelashes came from, a Spanish 
sailor back in the family. A careless spoken man, Billy 
Boots, not always proper in what he’d say in the presence 
of his children. 

At two o’clock the day of Mr. Goodrich’s funeral, all 
the Mem people had assembled in the concert hall. Then 
they went in a body to the crypt of St. Botolph’s Chapel, 
where Mr. O’Leary was waiting with the heavier mourn¬ 
ing for the lady officers. Over the various styles and 
structure of the officers’ hats, the veils looked god-awful. 
The effect was slaying, so fierce that Mr. O’Leary decided 
that hats be discarded. The improvement was wonderful. 
The officer ladies now looked like nuns, with the veils 
bringing out their good points and hiding their defects. 
Mr. O’Leary took great pains in draping the veils off 
from the faces, the way mourning is worn by the sisters 
of the deceased. Only the widow is entitled to a covered 
face at the funeral, Mr. O’Leary explained. 

At three o’clock the mourners were lined at the foot 
of the stairs leading up from the crypt to the main door 
in the Chapel entry, waiting till the hearse should arrive 
with Mr. Goodrich. It was quite a wait, all of ten min¬ 
utes. Then, the cue, and up the stairs and down the main 
aisle, two and two, behind the coffin, covered with a 
blanket of white rosebuds and lilies of the valley. 

It was thrilling—cameras clicking, flashlights flashing, 
organ pealing. Then, the roughnecks from the Annex 
District, who were on the side aisles, stood on the pew-seats 
to get a better view of the procession—the cameramen 
yelling at them to sit down. But the Neighbors, the real 


40 


A ROOF 


Memorial people, were something to be proud of—all of 
them reverent, Catholics and Jews the same as the Episco¬ 
palians. 

Mary felt sure she would be in some of the pictures— 
what a grand feeling to see herself in the papers tomorrow! 
She had a good place in the procession and an end seat 
right on the main aisle with a full view of the altar. 
Never had Mr. Carew looked handsomer, wearing a new 
surplice that fell in soft lines, clinging to his cassock, its 
whiteness bringing out his large dark eyes. The rector of 
St. Botolph’s Church in Madison Avenue was also on the 
altar. Mary gave him a disparaging glance—a flop, a 
washout beside the Vicar. Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Cromwell’s 
uncle, was crying, Mr. Goodrich had been his closest friend. 
But didn’t he look funny as he cried, so awful silly? But 
no sillier than Mary—her to notice that old wreck when 
the Vicar was on the altar! How sad it was that Mr. 
Carew wasn’t quite up to the picture of himself in the 
World War! Such a wonderful picture hung over his 
office desk, a group picture, all young officers in the Prin¬ 
cess Pat Regiment, dressed in kilts. He was trained for 
a military career and did not study for Holy Orders until 
the War was over and him changed from a worldly life. 
But no crepe-hanger about Mr. Carew—a very jolly dis¬ 
position, very pleasant manners, never long-faced. He 
carried his vestments with a military swing and style, 
so manly in his movements that you knew he hated to put 
skirts on. But too bad that he didn’t keep on wearing 
the Princess Pat uniform. Something about a uniform, 
an officer’s in particular—glamorous, making a man so 
different! The same thing you get from a handsome 
traffic cop, riding a fine horse. 


41 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

From the altar, Mary raised her eyes to the stained glass 
windows above it—Saint Michael, the archangel in armor, 
sword in hand, conquering Lucifer, the Prince of Dark¬ 
ness. Archangels are manly, of robust build—not woman¬ 
ish like the ordinary run of angels. Mr. Carew looked so 
much like Saint Michael that he might have posed for the 
artist. His name, too, was Michael, the same as the arch¬ 
angel’s. While Mary had a peculiar consciousness that the 
armored figure in the window was the Vicar, it did look 
much younger, about twenty-four or so. This conscious¬ 
ness always carried its ingredient of regret—Mr. Carew 
was forty-two. But he had something about him—he was 
the kind that is always attractive to younger women. Per¬ 
haps a part of his lure was his coldness—you just couldn’t 
picture him turning passionate on you. But a man like 
that, a tall handsome man, is a dare to a girl. Of course, 
he had already kissed Mary—but on the forehead, very 
fatherly. Mary had worked hard for that kiss, such as it 
was. That was last winter; curiously enough, it happened 
right in front of the altar. Maybe that was her mistake; 
she had rushed it, been too previous—she should have 
waited until they were out of the Chapel. If it had hap¬ 
pened in the Vicarage office, it might have ended differ¬ 
ently. Just her error, playing her trump card too early 
in the game. 

Mary was in a reverie, her eyes on the armored, not the 
cassocked and surpliced, Michael. Last Christmas Eve 
Mrs. Kip had brought in the loveliest vines from her place 
in New Jersey and the girls from the Junior Altar Guild 
should have been on hand to twine them on the chancel. 
But you know how girls are on Christmas Eve, all excited 
and screwy. Mary alone was on time, ready for service. 


42 


A ROOF 


Mr. Carew, happening into the chapel, gave her a hand at 
the vine twining. Of course, they talked as they worked 
—rather, Mr. Carew talked, Mary listened. Christmas 
seemed to make him more intimate; he was quite personal, 
telling her of his Christmasses as a kid in Canada. He said 
that was the Irish blood in him, his getting sentimental 
on anniversaries. The Irish, he said, were a romantic, im¬ 
pulsive people. Looking at the window above the altar, 
Mary said she always had a feeling that Saint Michael, not 
Saint Patrick, was the real Irish saint. She had always been 
in love with the name and the archangel, she told the 
Vicar, ever since the window was installed above the altar. 
"Saint Michael fascinates me,” she explained, "there is 
something about him dressed in armor, just like he is a 
real man, so gorgeous and yet human. Do you know, Mr. 
Carew, when I marry and have a little boy, I’m going to 
have you baptize him Michael?” 

As Mary said this, she bent over the chancel, her face 
very near to Michael Carew’s. 

He kissed her—on the forehead. But, just as she was 
raising her mouth to his, from the organ loft came a cough 
that echoed through the empty Chapel. The cougher was 
Mr. Llewellyn, choir master, getting ready for organ prac¬ 
tice on tomorrow’s music. 

And there it ended—a kiss on the forehead. Mr. Llew¬ 
ellyn had ruined everything, although he may have had no 
such evil intention—he did have a bad chest cold at the 
time. 

As Mr. Goodrich’s funeral services progressed, Mary’s 
thoughts ran on in review of the past—sad thoughts, deep 
regrets for her error in stepping out with Stanley Hayden. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 43 

What a great mistake it had been, that tie-up; how it had 
failed its purpose of getting the Vicar good and scared! 
The whole thing left her in such a puzzle: could Mr. 
Carew’s opinions be too liberal, not sufficiently fearful of 
the Reds and their doings? Clergymen are occasionally 
that way, all too apt to be too broad minded. But, if it 
pleased him, Mr. Carew could have what opinions he 
wished—wasn’t he independently wealthy? Didn’t Mrs. 
Cromwell and Mrs. Kip, the Mrs. Kip who built the 
Chapel, didn’t they all know he wasn’t scared at the 
thought of losing his living? Regrets and self-condemna¬ 
tion came to an abrupt halt while the Reverend Doctor 
Flannery spoke a few well chosen sentences in commem¬ 
oration of Mr. Goodrich’s philanthropy. 

When Doctor Flannery had finished his brief eulogy, 
Mr. Goodrich went down the aisle under the blanket of 
white rosebuds and lilies of the valley. Then, into the 
crypt again for the lady officers to remove their veils, don 
their hats, and pay Mr. O’Leary his dime rentals. Mrs. 
Lantey, who had assisted Miss Fairbrother, the choir 
mother, came in with a big story. She said the Vicar was 
in a rage over the cameramen in the Chapel, that he gave 
Mrs. Cromwell the call-down of her life for "turning God’s 
house into a stage for a cheap publicity stunt.” But Mrs. 
Cromwell stood her ground, according to Mrs. Lantey’s 
account. A great thing for the Memorial, Mrs. Cromwell 
told the Vicar, and a great thing for philanthropy to let 
the public know how grateful the Neighborhood people 
were to Mr. Goodrich for all he had done for them and 
their children; how deeply they mourned his passing. 


Chapter Four 


Since he was a Sheffield freshman, Evan Ewing Lansing 
had been "Lance.” No shaking the name stuck on him 
in New Haven. He resented it, the first syllable of a sur¬ 
name his father, born Laninsky, had no right to assume. 
Of course, Dad had not changed the name to take on 
any false pretensions—a mere matter of business with the 
old man, easier to pronounce, more American in appear¬ 
ance. But just his luck, the boy decided, a peculiar kink 
he had, a fixation that made him feel a fake, every time 
he gave his name or put it on paper. Life and so many 
things were that way with him, all foisted on him. Take 
this roadster he drove, one of these glory cars with a spe¬ 
cially built body. The motored splurge was another of 
Dad’s ideas, a recompense to Lance for three earless years 
in New Haven. But that was Dad, that was Jake Lansing, 
all right, firm believer in money and the privileges of 
money. Dad could see no reason why a fellow had to wait 
for his senior year to sport a car—what right had Yale, 


45 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

or any college to presume to dictate to his son, or to the 
son of any man who could afford a car and its proper up¬ 
keep? 

Lance drove on, two fellows on the front seat with him, 
two behind in the rumble, a hungry cargo, ready to stop 
at the first decent looking beanery on upper Broadway. 
A white-tiled diner soon catching their eyes, they yelled 
halt in chorus. While Lance did not fancy such a cheap 
joint, he had the others to think about, fellows who had to 
count their pennies. So often it was this penny-skimp 
gait, diners, cafeterias, balcony seats at the shows. Yet, 
the shoe-string wasn’t so bad. After all, the fun of a thing 
is the company you’ve got with you. Of course, if he 
wanted to, he could have taken a more prosperous bunch 
down with him, this morning, fellows who could pay for 
the best of everything. But, on the other hand, why 
should he taxi them to New York when they were amply 
able to pay for their own portage? Then, again there was 
another stripe, fellows perfectly agreeable to leech on him. 
But Lance steered clear of those boys, the moochers. This 
bunch was a fine bunch, real guys, all that sort of thing. 
They were in for a grand old time in New York—Lance 
had it all planned, a surprise he’d spring on them presently. 

The five young men took their seats at the beanery 
counter. When they had stuffed themselves out of hunger, 
Lance would disclose the treat he had for everybody, 
something none of them would forget in a hurry. Then, 
what a set-back—over his pie, Tim Ayres said he had a 
date with a girl! Tim was swell on a party. Lance’s high 
spirits fell at the thought of losing him, a break in his 
wonderful plan. Mac was the next to fall out—he, too, 
had a date with a girl. Finally, they all came out with 


A ROOF 


46 

the same story—all dated up for the week-end—girl dates. 
But they would drop in on Lance later at the hotel, they 
told him, he might expect them in the wee small hours of 
tomorrow morning. 

Mac, the decentest of the bunch, wanted Lance to go 
with him and meet his new girl, a prom conquest, a Gram- 
ercy Park address. Mac (Stephen MacKettrick) was from 
Cheyenne where his old man was a captain of police. But 
nothing of the roughneck about this Wyoming article. 
The Lord Chesterfield of Sheff, that was Mac. He always 
wrote a bread-and-butter letter to his hostess, thanking 
her for a delightful dinner or a week-end. He never 
dropped ashes on Turkey rugs. He never laid lighted 
cigarettes on antique furniture; none of the collegiate 
vices. But Mac had an easy manner that kept him from 
appearing pedantic, a hang-over from the past generation. 
He needed it—nothing could make him say bitch or lousy 
before girls, not even when the girls used like terms. But. 
a lot of Westerners are that way at first. Mac never 
changed, however, and all to the good, apparently—he 
went over big with the old dames; they asked him to lots 
of swell places. A real person, and never afraid to say 
his father was a cop. Yes, Lance did like Steve Mac¬ 
Kettrick, something so foursquare about him, so above¬ 
board and in the open. 

"Go to it,” he told the bunch. "HI date me a girl of 
my own.” And young Lansing went to the diner’s slot 
telephone to call up Sylvia. But, hang it, Sylvia was al¬ 
ready dated. Then, Tino was called. Tino was out of com¬ 
mission, her mother said, an attack of spring flu. 

Tim suggested that Lance pick up a girl somewhere. 
Lance said he might, but he had no intention of such ad- 


AGAINST THE RAIN 47 

venture. He had tried it and it hadn’t worked out so well. 
One pick-up got plastered and raised blue hell in a night 
club. Another was a blackmailer—the lark cost two 
thousand dollars and a lawyer’s fee. Some fellows could 
swing it. He couldn’t—he was just a boob with a hell of a 
lot of money, the name of a rich father, a shining light 
for a seduction charge. 

Then, they all left Lance in front of the diner. Good 
God, and the party he had planned! Again he went to 
the slot telephone. He’d get Paul Maguire. Paul was good 
company, a Sheff senior who fell out the first of the year 
for the usual reason—his old man gone dead broke. 
Paul now had a good job with the United Can Company 
in their sales department. Lance got the United Can and 
Paul on the wire. This time, it was a go. Maguire said 
he’d be off at one, this afternoon; and would Lance be on 
hand at the main gate of the plant at ten after one? 

Lance drove down town and registered at his favorite 
Fifth Avenue hotel. "Make it a rate for two,” he told the 
clerk; "there’s a chance that a friend may drop in on me for 
the night.” 

Often, when down on a week-end, the fellows had a 
system of slipping up to his suite without attracting the 
notice of the hotel office. They always made out some¬ 
how—the other twin bed, the couch in the sitting room, 
quilts on the floor, one way and another. And why not 
be obliging—wasn’t his old man sitting pretty in a finan¬ 
cial world that fell to pieces about him—Jake Lansing of 
Youngstown, with his banks, his trust company, his pub¬ 
lic utilities, all sound as the Rock of Gibraltar? 

Thinking of Dad, the boy remembered the letter he had 
picked up, this morning, still unopened in his pocket, 


48 


A ROOF 


"Dear Son,” Lance read, 

"A few lines to let you know I am in fair to 
middling health and have been receiving your letters. 
No news except Flossie pupped on the tenth ultimo, 
seven in the litter. For once the old bitch has had 
purebreds. Will I send you one, soon as he gets house 
broke? 

"As ever your Father, 

"Jacob Lansing.” 

Flossie was a purebred Lewellin setter, prolific mother 
of hybrid litters by chance sires. The thought of her 
started a train of recollections. One recollection persisted 
in the boy’s mind, his home-coming, a year ago last Christ¬ 
mas. Dad was in the room, called a library for no other 
reason than that was the name it bore in the architect’s 
plan. No books were ever purchased to grace its walls. 
Kind of funny, too, Dad’s aversion to books and the aver¬ 
age self-made man a good book consumer, going in strong 
for Napoleon and the big shots of history. But not his 
old man, who concentrated on newspapers. How he read 
them from the "New York Times” to the "Los Angeles 
Herald,” sitting up half the night, reading, napping! 

There sat Dad in his Morris chair. The room was a mess 
—newspapers heaped on the table, discarded papers strewn 
all over the floor, puppies everywhere, half-grown curs, 
no two of like frame or color. A bedlam as well as a mess 
—pups barking, yelping as they tore and strewed the 
papers about the room. Flossie was at the old man’s knees, 
awaiting an occasional pull at her silky ears. 

"That’s a good bitch,” Lance had protested; "why can’t 
you have her bred right?” 

"More important things than Flossie in this house that 


49 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

ain’t been bred right! Lookit me, lookit the son I got to 
represent me! Hell, boy, it’s enough to drive me nuts 
when I think you’re all I got and how you’ll fall down on 
wearing the shoes I’ll leave you.” 

"Say, Dad, what’s on your chest, tonight, anyhow?” 

"A heap of a load on the chest of any man that’s got 
all the enemies I got, nothing but enemies, all laying for 
me!” 

His father had never gone in for making friends, Lance 
realized—had specialized in making enemies. What a 
Juggernaut he had been! How he had ridden down and 
pancaked everybody and everything which stood between 
him and success! And so he had risen from an iron- 
puddler in the mills to the presidency of the Mahoning 
Bank and Trust Company. Such success must have its 
bitter pay-off—poor Dad, now atop the ladder, surveying 
the wreckage at its bottom, the men he had ruined in his 
ruthless climb! 

And so objectless! After all, what was there in it, this 
loading up with money? A fellow could only sleep in one 
bed at a time, ride in one car, wear one suit of clothes, 
live in one house, or put down no more food and drink 
than he could comfortably stomach. 

"I got a hell of a lotta enemies,” Jacob repeated; "and I 
ain’t regretting it any. It was them, or it was me. I 
worked for me—and I done ’em, pack and parcel. Some 
that I done is dead, some of ’em suicided. But them that’s 
living is laying for me, watching me, keeping tabs on me, 
every goddamn minute.” 

Lance stood, silent, his gaze on the squat, deep-torsoed 
figure. Dad always said his mother was Irish, but not a 
vestige of the Celt was in the old man’s visage. He also 



50 


A ROOF 


said his own father’s people were not Poles in blood, that 
they came from farther East originally. Lance had often 
wondered if that vague East might not be Hungary. 
From Dad’s appearance, it might have been Tartary. A 
peculiar looking old bird, almost Asiatic—perhaps, a 
throw-back to some tribal hetman. 

The vitality, the tremendous energy centered in the old 
chief as he sat there, his slant eyes, his broad, high cheek¬ 
bones, wide-nostrilled nose, spreading indomitable chin, 
another Genghis Khan. Dad had been born long after 
his time. Dad belonged to a past age when he could have 
assembled hordes of tribes and over-run half a continent 
in a cataclysm of fire and blood-letting. 

From his father, the boy looked over the mantel at his 
Welsh mother’s picture. The frame was gilt gesso-duro; 
the portrait, a large tinted photograph—Dad’s idea of high 
art. She was a tall, handsome woman with large eyes and 
regular features. Lance knew he looked like her and was 
glad of it. He wished he could remember her. But no 
mother in the house since his earliest memory, only Dad’s 
housekeepers. Later on, he knew Lansing housekeepers 
were more or less a whispered scandal in Youngstown— 
women dressed and bejewelled beyond their station, who 
accompanied their employer to shows and the races, occa¬ 
sionally going to New York with him. They were all 
handsome, healthy-looking creatures, as the son recalled 
them; Dad never went in for anything poisonous. But, 
for the last few years, the home was in charge of a butler. 
No more housekeepers, not after the last one had sued 
Dad for breach of promise. Rather a nasty ordeal for the 
old man, right in the lap of his enemies. The newspapers 
made a lot of it, played it up, front page stuff under 
screaming headlines. 


51 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

With this and that listed in the red against Dad’s de¬ 
portment, the name Lansing didn’t register socially in 
Youngstown—all its honors were strictly Dun and Brad- 
street ratings. But the old man wasn’t a hypocrite, no liar 
nor pretender like the dads of some other fellows he could 
, mention, preaching one thing and living another. His 
own Dad was what he was, a grand old pagan; he lived 
his private life according to his lights and principles, or 
lack of principles. At any rate, he broke no canonical 
laws he pretended to accept. More than that, Dad was 
straight with statute and code, an upright man of business. 
If some of his methods were ruthless and ethically un¬ 
scrupulous, these methods were within the law. It was the 
law itself that was at fault, not Jake Lansing who made 
no pretenses to altruism. Taken all in all, Lance couldn’t 
think of any other fellow’s old man he would prefer to 
his own. By and large, Dad had the qualities he most 
admired—he wasn’t a liar, he wasn’t a hypocrite. 

"Well, Dad, I’m sorry you don’t seem so glad to see me, 
this Christmas,” the boy said finally. 

"What have you done to make me flop all over at the 
sight of you?” 

"I’m doing well at Sheff, Dad; I’m on the Dean’s list.” 

"You know damn well I ain’t pouring out all this 
money for no Yale education. Good God, if it was educa¬ 
tion I had in mind for you, I could of sent you to the 
Lutheran College at Bethel for one half of one per cent 
of what you cost me at New Haven!” 

"I feel this way, Dad, when a fellow goes in for anything, 
he should be honest and go the limit with it. After all, 
Yale is an educational institution, endowed and equipped 
for that purpose. To throw down the purpose of an in¬ 
stitution doesn’t seem decent.” 


52 A ROOF 

"You owe Yale nothing. Ain’t I always paid your col¬ 
lege bills?” 

"The tuition fees don’t begin to cover what a student 
costs any of the big universities.” 

"Hell, boy, talk sense! Colleges couldn’t keep running, 
if they didn’t meet their over-head.” 

"They’re run on their endowments, Dad.” 

"Endowments be damned! You was sent to New Haven 
to make the right friends for yourself. You crack-pot 
idiot, can’t you see I don’t want to leave you my enemies 
unto the second generation? My two worst enemies is 
Nat Halleck and Hugh Crosby, both of them with their 
boys at Yale. Have you made friends with them like I 
told you to?” 

"They wouldn’t meet me halfway. It takes two to 
make a friendship, you know, Dad.” 

"If you had the right stuffing in you, you could’ve 
swung it.” 

Lance said nothing, not a peep that the Crosbys and the 
Hallecks went to New Haven from Groton and Phillips 
Exeter—and he from high school. Into high school, he 
had carried his grade school friends with him, the tough¬ 
est guys in Youngstown. Dad had not gone in for an 
exclusive residence section when he built his proud house. 
Oh, no, not Jacob Lansing! Jacob’s new home must go 
up on the site of the old one, the spot where luck had 
favored him. 

Surrounded by the habitations of mill workers, Lance 
had grown strong and tall and muscular, his manners and 
speech the manners and speech of his associates, the mill 
hands’ sons with whom he played and chummed, and 
fought fierce, rough and tumble fights. When home on 


53 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

vacation, these fellows were still his Youngstown friends— 
they had very real times together, great fun to reminisce 
over past encounters, the lickings they gave him, the lick¬ 
ings he gave them. Another thing, too, entered into the 
New Haven situation—Lance had gone there too early, a 
high school prodigy, ready for college in his seventeenth 
year—too young at first to know what it was all about. 
Then, too much money had its serious handicaps. He 
often flushed, now, at freshman memories of the days 
when he was known as "the gilded kid from Ohio.” 

"You ain’t done nothing I expected of you,” Jacob 
scolded; "you ain’t made a friend of a single Youngstown 
feller in New Haven.” 

Lance could have truthfully told him that the Youngs¬ 
town contingent went to New Haven with no desire to 
take up with Jake Lansing’s son. And Lance, for his part, 
had been equally cold and distant to them. 

"You got nothing to say for yourself?” demanded the 
father. 

Determined on silence, the accused shook his head. 

Jake continued on, acrimonious, vehement. He charged 
the son’s shortcomings to the distaff side of the house, to 
the Lloyds and the Ewings, his wife’s people. 

"And you don’t look like ’em for nothing,” he yelled; 
"nothing but your fine looks and good figure—all front 
and no back to you.” At that, he rose and lighted his 
fifty-cent cigar with a coal from the grate. Dad was 
peculiar in his economics, he would burn his fingers before 
he’d waste a match. He had the most expensive imported 
car in Youngstown, a liveried chauffeur to drive it. But 
he never motored a mile farther than the necessity de¬ 
manded—just couldn’t find it from his heart to burn up 


54 


A ROOF 


the gasoline. Fond of listening to air programs, his five 
hundred dollar radio set was silent to save the cost of re¬ 
placing its burned-out tubes. On a New York business 
trip, he’d have a suite at the most expensive hotel and 
take his meals in cafeterias. A nickel was his maximum 
tip to porters and bell-boys. His own employees were 
beaten down to the last living cent of salary. But, on the 
other hand, they could always come to him with a hard 
luck story and walk away with a generous check. A 
puzzling old codger, skinflint with one fist, Santa Claus 
with the other! 

"Looky here, Evan,” Jacob thundered as he flung a 
blazing ember back on the log in the fireplace and licked 
his burned fingers. "Lookit me, saving at every goddamn 
bunghole, slaving eighteen hours a day! And for what, 
d’you suppose?” 

"Search me,” said the son; "I don’t get it.” 

"Looky here, boy, none of your impidence!” 

"Sorry, Dad, it wasn’t meant that way; really, it 
wasn’t.” 

"Then, answer my question—what am I saving and 
slaving for?” 

"I can’t figure that out, Dad. It doesn’t make sense to 
me, this getting too much money; or too much of any¬ 
thing, for that matter. To my mind, it’s a form of glut¬ 
tony—like over-eating, or over-drinking.” 

"To your mind, to your mind! What the hell I care 
for your goddamn mind, anyhow? What’s your mind to 
do with it? I got something different in my mind for 
what I want done with my money. But you throw me 
down, you don’t do it.” 

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” 


55 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"To hell with your sorry! Results is what I want from 
you. I’ve been more wrong bred than Flossie. I took the 
wrong woman to have a son for me, a go-getter of a son 
who could pick up what I been dropping as I went ahead, 
making money for you. 

"When a man picks a wife for hisself,” Jake said bit¬ 
terly, "he ought to think less of looks and more of breed¬ 
ing. That’s where I made my mistake, taking a woman 
on her face and fine figger and her leaving a son on my 
hands that can’t do the only thing needed in the Lansing 
combination. And here I am, lookit me! I’m president 
of the Mahoning Bank and Trust Company and my son 
cuts no more figger in Youngstown than if I was a janitor 
in the concern.” 

That was the last straw—Lance went into action then. 
Told his father to keep his damned money, to keep his 
damned everything. As for himself, he was on his way to 
New Haven; he could work his way through college—he 
was on his own now. 

But the checks continued to come from Youngstown— 
peace offerings, more generous than before. Then, too, the 
habit of spending gets a strong hold on a fellow. But as 
soon as he had his B.S. it would be another story. He’d get 
a job with some chemical concern—damned if he’d go 
into the bank and tie himself down to something he hated! 



Chapter Five 


All United Can employees were dismissed a half hour 
earlier than usual this Saturday. Labor trouble. Or, as 
Mary saw it, not so much labor as sex trouble. And that 
old goat, that dirty skunk, Chid Billings, at the bottom 
of it, one of those horrid letches who couldn’t keep his 
hands off an attractive woman. Ed Monahan’s wife, young 
and attractive, called to see Ed during work hours. Instead 
of sending in word from the office for Ed to come and see 
her there, Mrs. Monahan went to the platform where the 
trunks were loaded. The foreman, Billings, saw her and 
went true to form. Of course, she beat it immediately; 
but, like a fool, told her story to Ed when he came home. 
Then, Ed didn’t do like he ought to—if he used his head 
as well as he used his fists, he’d have waited till he caught 
Billings on neutral ground. But not hothead Ed Mona¬ 
han—the next morning, on the Company’s property, on 
the Company’s time, Billings got what was coming to him, 
a walloping that sent him to Bellevue in the ambulance. 

56 


57 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

The beating went over big, everybody enjoyed it im¬ 
mensely. But Ed broke rules and was fired. Ed was a 
popular truckman and a dozen drivers walked out with 
him. Then, they started to picket the plant, an outlaw 
strike. Trouble appeared on the horizon around the noon 
hour Saturday, with outsiders butting in, fixing to stage 
a demonstration. When it began to look serious, the 
Company told everybody to hurry home while the going 
was good. 

Instead of hurrying away, Mary lingered outside the 
main gate. A hunch told her it would be a good thing 
to see the demonstration, and have a story to tell the Vicar 
of getting hurt in the rioting. Catch her getting hurt! 
But Mr. Carew wouldn’t know the difference and what 
a chance to have a private little talk with him! It would 
be an exciting story, and he so interested in the labor 
question. But not so interested in Mary, this last week. 
A few evenings ago, he wouldn’t see her when she called 
at the Vicarage. What a turn-down she got! She had 
arrived early, the evening’s first caller. Then, in came 
Mrs. Hart and her daughter, Mabel, a girl that was a scan¬ 
dal and a shame in the Neighborhood, her taking up with 
Mr. Bemis, a married man with a wife and three kids in 
the Bronx! He was one of these smooth fellows with a 
flash car. Of course, the Harts weren’t highly thought of, 
the mother a bonehead that rented her parlor, leaving her 
girls no place to entertain boy friends. Nor did the 
woman belong to any of the Mem clubs, she was that low 
down and common. Mabel used to belong to the Cor¬ 
nelias. But the Cornelias voted her out, just more than 
they could stand for, one of their members taking up with 
a married man. Easy enough to see what was up, the other 


58 


A ROOF 


evening, that Mrs. Hart was taking Mabel to the Vicar 
to make her promise to give up Mr. Bemis. Mabel sure 
looked penitent, her eyes red and swollen from crying. 

When Mr. Carew appeared, he merely waved his hand 
to Mary and made straight for the Hart girl, telling her 
to go into his private office where he’d see her after he had 
had a word with her mother. Then, he took the old 
woman into his secretary’s office, closing the door. Mary 
told herself that she did not stand by the door to snoop. 
She stood there because she was too nervous to sit down 
and one spot was as good to stand on as another. Natu¬ 
rally, her ear went to the door panel, and, oh, such a tongue- 
lashing as Mrs. Hart got from the Vicar! How he sailed 
into her for renting the parlor, leaving her daughters 
without a proper place to meet young men. It was grand 
to hear him, all for the young folks, no fogy notions 
whatever. Mrs. Hart began to cry, saying she was an 
innocent woman, never knowing the evil in the world. 
The Vicar told her she was criminally ignorant and no 
excuse for her ignorance. Among other things, he said 
she should belong to the Women’s Club at the Mem and 
get modern ideas into her head with the rest of the Neigh¬ 
borhood mothers. 

In the nick of time, Mary got to the farther side of the 
room and into a chair. The next instant, Mr. Carew entered 
alone. Mary rose to meet him. "I’ve something on my 
mind,” she began, "something that’s bothering me ter¬ 
ribly; and I’ve got to tell you that . . 

"The bunk,” broke in the Vicar; "stop this eternal 
self-dramatization, Mary; snap out of it!” 

At that, he gave her shoulder a pat, a gesture of dis¬ 
missal, and went to Mabel Hart in his inner office. 


59 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Mary leaned against a gate pillar, no thought nor eye 
for the crowd in the street before her. How her face 
burned at the memory of Mr. Carew’s rebuff, that he 
could treat her like that to give his time to Mabel Hart! 
He certainly wasn’t scared about Stan Hayden, he wasn’t 
scared about any dangers Mary Boots might get into. 
How awful, his mind perfectly at ease about her! Like as 
not, he might stop seeing her, and no more propinquity, as 
Stan called it. 

A brick came through the air. Over the sidewalk it 
flew, over the wire fence and smash through a window of 
the General Administration building. Another missile 
followed, and yet another. The heroism of Mary Boots 
vanished, and she took to her heels in frenzied flight. But 
too late, the mob had already engulfed her. Such a crazy 
mob, more vicious with each second. Every face was a 
strange face, not a Company employee in the yelling, 
packing mass! Reds, Mary felt, a lot of them college boys 
and girls. But just as terrible to be killed by a young as 
by an older person. God, who’d thought a riot was death 
dangerous, and a bunch of mounted cops riding down on 
her! 

Mary ran faster, the shrieks became shriller, the push of 
panic in her heels, the force of frenzy in her arms. But 
no way to safety! Here she was, jammed in the midst of 
a stampede! What a way to die, the life pressed out of 
her! 

Labor trouble, a strike, Lance realized. A jinx of a day, 
and, to top everything, he had gravitated into the center 
of a howling, rampaging mob. Hell, why didn’t Paul put 
him next to this when they had their phone talk? Why 


60 


A ROOF 


didn’t Paul fix it to meet him instead of steering him right 
into this riot? Now to get himself out and call Paul up. 
But did he have Paul’s New York address? Lance looked 
in his memo book as he brought the car to a stop, a neces¬ 
sary halt, traffic blocked on every side. More bad luck— 
only Maguire’s business address, neither his home nor 
phone number. But maybe Paul left that at the office. 

Gee, wasn’t he hungry! And nothing but to take it 
calmly until the police got things in hand. Hell seemed 
about to break loose to the rear. Some strafe, when that 
maddened aggregation swept on and around his car! The 
din they raised, ear-splitting! The United Can was prob¬ 
ably getting what was coming to it; people didn’t get this 
fussed up over nothing. Funny, how bank workers never 
made a stand for themselves, Dad’s employees, for in¬ 
stance! This was what Dad needed, what he had been 
sticking out his neck for, all these years. Sure, Dad’s son 
would welcome just such a whirlwind in front of the 
Mahoning Bank and Trust Company, a good lesson to the 
old man, something to knock a new idea into his head! 

Above hoots and boos, Lance heard a shriek, shrill and 
feminine. Holy smoke, the crowd had a girl pushed 
against the door of his car, crushing, smothering her! No 
getting the door open, not against the press of this mob. 
He lowered the glass, leaned out, and seized the girl under 
the arms. A piece of brick caught him on the head, a 
nasty wallop. But she lifted easily, a short-legged girl, 
most of her in a long slim body. She wasn’t hurt, not a 
scratch on her; but damned hysterical, pawing at him in 
blind panic, yelling to be taken out of danger. God, she 
was a mess, the crazy idiot, to grab at his wheel! 

“Hands off that wheel!” yelled Lance. “I’m taking care 


61 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

of this car. Pull yourself together—this is no time to go 
cuckoo!” 

"I must get away! I’ll be killed! For God’s sake, start 
your car!” shrieked the girl. 

"Keep your hair on, I tell you. Stop hollering. I’ve my 
own head to keep in this mix-up!” 

Mounted on top the car that jammed his front bump¬ 
ers, Lance saw three cameramen. Nervy fellows, the way 
they took their pictures in a shower of flying sticks and 
bricks! 

Here they came from behind, the radio cars with shriek¬ 
ing sirens. Only one cameraman remained, the others 
knocked off, probably under the feet of this mob, trampled 
in the stampede. But the fellow left was still taking pic¬ 
tures, his face streaming blood while the camera went on, 
steadily clicking. Mounted cops reached the scene in a 
bedlam of "Cossacks! Cossacks!” yelled in discordant 
chorus. The cry seemed to electrify the mob as the cry 
was repeated and repeated. A girl with short red hair and 
wearing a scarlet sweater grabbed a horse’s rein and fas¬ 
tened her teeth in the mounted cop’s hand as he tried to 
break her hold on his bridle. The horse shied, the mob 
swallowed them up; the girl, dragging, still held on with 
the grip of teeth and fingers. A mounted man fell from 
the saddle, and bounced against the mudguard of the 
news-reel car. Lance wondered if he were killed, the face 
so white against blood from the deep gash across his cheek 
and over his forehead. The roadster windshield was spat¬ 
tered over—blood bright red, like a sudden inset of rubies 
on the glass. It spattered thicker, redder, the drops ran 
together—from a man’s head on Lance’s engine—a 
mounted cop laying his stick on, fast and heavy. Then, 



62 


A ROOF 


the cop toppled from his saddle—somebody got him on 
the nape of the neck with a piece of gaspipe. Not much 
to see, then, all the roadster glass too blood spattered. 
Through a clear space on the windshield, Lance saw the 
cameraman, still taking pictures. 

More cops, more mounteds, more radio cars. The riot 
went on, farther up the street. All of a sudden, it was 
quiet; only the gongs of the ambulances now. 

Lance turned to the girl beside him and gasped. What 
a face, her rare coloring, the exquisite moulding of her 
cheeks into a daintily pointed chin! The belted coat, em¬ 
phasizing her waist, seemed to throw her long coupling into 
legs, camouflaging their shortness. Her figure appeared 
good, rounded breasts, nice feet, neat ankles. 

"Feeling better now?” he asked. 

"You saved my life,” she bubbled over. "I can’t tell 
you how grateful I am. When I think of it, how mar¬ 
vellous you were, when I realize . . .” 

"What are you trying to sell me,” he interrupted, "the 
idea I’m a hero?” 

"You are a hero, you’re wonderful—and so brave.” 

"Say, aren’t you getting rather gushy?” 

"It’s only what I feel for what you did!” 

"Just what have I done?” 

"You rescued me at the risk of your own life, when you 
reached out of the car. You could have been killed.” 

Lance remembered the flying brick that got him, but 
made no allusion to it. The bump was beginning to assert 
itself painfully; but, fortunately, there was no abrasion. 

The girl had looks and she had style, but who was she? 
None of the strikers, certainly. Her coat, its cut, its 
material, its kolinsky collar and cuffs were not the garb 


6 3 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

of a down-trodden worker. Could she be a parlor Red, 
out to do her bit this morning? No, that pattern did not 
fit her—she lacked the guts that went with such a char¬ 
acter. Like himself, this girl was probably in her car, 
her presence on the scene purely accidental. But she lost 
her head in the riot, left her car, sought safety in flight 
by foot. 

Lance called to a passing policeman. "Officer,” he asked, 
"please tell me, is there, by any chance, another riot on 
today?” 

The officer did not deign to answer, but the surviving 
cameraman responded for him. "You’ll soon find a swell 
mob in Fourteenth Street,” he said, "to the south of Union 
Square. All the demonstrators who were here have gone 
there to raise hell—another walk-out and another dem¬ 
onstration.” 

"Hear that?” Lance turned to Mary. "Another grateful 
peep from you, and you’ll be rushed to Union Square and 
pitched in the midst of that riot.” 

How dumb of her, Mary realized, how she got this 
young gentleman all wrong, thinking he’d like to be told 
how brave he was, a perfect hero! But how lucky, he must 
be very wealthy, a high-hat, the real thing. God, if she 
could only get thick with him, make dates with him, and 
make it into a story that could get Mr. Carew good and 
scared! 

"Are you going to cut it out, this idea I should be 
decorated?” he asked. 

"No decoration’s in order,” Mary essayed; "none de¬ 
served. You didn’t do anything in saving me. I’m only 
Mary Boots, a very ordinary person.” 

"I’m Evan Lansing and here to tell you you’re fishing. 


64 


A ROOF 


Fve good eyesight and I’m looking at nothing ordinary.” 

"Oh,” said Mary then, "it’s an introduction.” 

"How do you do, Miss Boots?” and he held out his hand. 

"How do you do, Mr. Lansing?” and took his hand. 

She noticed how young he appeared, no more than 
twenty. Too bad he was so awfully young, not old enough 
to be dangerous. But no need to tell Mr. Carew those 
details. To the Vicar, Mr. Lansing must be about thirty, 
very fast-looking, also very fast, always ready with a pass 
at her, dead set on the make. What a simp she was to give 
her right name! Why hadn’t she thought of something 
fancier than plain Mary Boots? If she had only said she 
was Joyce Averill or Brenda Meredith! But she would not 
slip up when he asked her address. Catch her owning 
Goodrich Place to this high-hat! Never in the world! But 
what address? Park Avenue? Gramercy Park? Sutton 
Place? Best take Sutton Place, it sounded so swanky, so 
tops. Thank God, she’d worn her best coat today—so 
chilly, this morning. Mr. Lansing would judge her by 
it, a "Carry On” Shop buy. Like as not, he took her for 
a girl who bought such things from Fifth Avenue stores. 
Like as not, he knew nothing of the used clothes trade, 
an idea like that never coming into his head. Yes, she must 
tell him she lived in Sutton Place—he would never date 
her up, not if he knew she was from Goodrich Place, and 
a stencil cutter in the Can works. And he must give her 
a few dates, enough to make it look like he was trying to 
make her. Of course, he wouldn’t try to make her, not 
if he thought she was another Socialite. But Mr. Carew 
wasn’t going to know that. Mr. Carew had to think that 
Mr. Lansing knew she was a tenement girl, little Miss 
Nobody from Nowhere, somebody to meet on the side with 


65 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

bad intentions. My, but he was handsome and tall, too 
tall for twenty! Such marvellous eyes, gray eyes! His 
nose was certainly nice and straight, and such lovely hair! 
His mouth was good, very firm, like he had a strong char¬ 
acter. 

The roadster got under way, but only for a short drive 
when it had to stop—an ambulance in the road, backed 
rear-end to the curb. On the sidewalk, a policeman and 
an interne from Bellevue came along with a stretcher. 
On the stretcher was a red-headed girl, carrying on some¬ 
thing frightful. She was the fierce one, a Red, Mary 
knew. Just look at her, kicking at the cop for all she was 
worth, yelling "Cossack” at him, and the cop trying to 
help her! My God, but wasn’t it terrible, how the girl 
was done up, her clothes torn, her hands and face covered 
with blood! 

"There’s pluck for you,” sounded Mr. Lansing’s voice 
and his tone so admiring! "I saw that girl go for a 
mounted man like a wildcat.” 

"But do you think, Mr. Lansing, that she’s acting the 
lady?” Mary’s tone was her very best, her most punc¬ 
tilious effort at refinement. 

Lance smiled, amused immensely. What a quaint little 
person he had picked up, a Miss Prim, prating of ladies! 
Where had she come from? Some little village, off the 
beaten path? Her accent was neither Southern, nor West¬ 
ern. Could she be Canadian? Yes, probably, from Canada 
with her slightly British accent, from some little town, 
very circumspect, still Victorian. 

"Where car t I drop you?” asked Mr. Lansing as the 
street ahead cleared and he started his car. 

"I live in Sutton Place,” she told him. 


66 A ROOF 

"In much of a hurry? Fd like to turn in at the first 
service station to get the windshield cleaned.” 

"No, Fm in no hurry,” said Mary with sinking spirits. 
What a disappointment, the high-hat meaning to ditch 
her at the first opportunity! What was the matter with 
him! Couldn’t he see she was a blonde, a natural blonde 
with brown eyes? 

At the first service station, Lance turned in and hurried 
to a telephone to call Paul, but he had left his office. No 
message was there, not a clue to where Maguire had gone. 
Well, how about asking Miss Prissy Prim to luncheon? 
At least, she was easy on the eyes, and she was grateful, 
brimming over with gratitude. 

"Why, Mr. Lansing, you look so put out over some¬ 
thing,” said Mary, "like you got bad news.” 

"Bad news, all right; Fm left all alone in the big city. 
The bunch of pikers I took down from New Haven this 
morning, walked out on me and the party I had planned. 
Now, the fellow I expected to console me is another piker. 
It’s up to you now, Miss Boots. I saved your life at the 
risk of my own, your own words for it. Will you prove 
your gratitude—by having luncheon with me?” 

What a restaurant Mr. Lansing chose, the swank of it! 
And cocktails! But Mary meant to keep her head, only 
one cocktail for her, one and no more. She must func¬ 
tion, every minute, she knew, always with her finger on 
her number. 

"How long have you been in New York?” Mr. Lansing 
asked, as they took their seats at the table. - 

"What makes you think Fm not a New Yorker?” 

"I’ve your number, all right; you’re a small town girl.” 



67 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

How awful, she had pulled a boner! Mary flushed. 
She had slipped up on something with some bad crack or 
other. But, since she had miscued, no correcting it now. 
Yes, she must play up small town girl and keep Mr. Lans¬ 
ing from suspecting Miss Boots was a phoney article. 
Certainly, she had it now. She would say she came from 
Alda, Oklahoma, the place where Uncle Henry was when 
Papa last heard from him, about three years ago. 

'Tm from Oklahoma,” Mary heard her own voice; 
"from a little place called Alda. I’m only here a few 
months, staying with friends, folks I used to know in 
Alda.” 

"What’s going on in Alda?” 

"Oil mostly,” she answered, remembering Uncle Henry 
had written a long letter to Papa, telling about a job he 
had, something to do with an oil well. 

"You’re oil, too, are you?” Mr. Lansing asked. 

"Oh, yes, Papa owns oil wells, any number of them.” 

"You’re in luck, I’ll say.” 

"It is a very good business, Mr. Lansing, Papa has done 
very well with it.” 

"Cut out the small town formality, and call me Evan 
for a change.” 

"Evan—that’s a very nice name.” 

"I think so, but I’m always called Lance.” 

"That’s still nicer, Lance is a lovely name.” 

"I don’t like it as well.” 

"Your last name is lovely, too, it sounds so aristocratic. 
You should be proud of a name like that, so distinguished. 
Really, now, aren’t you?” 

"No, not a little bit. Originally, it was Laninsky, but, 
for business reasons, Dad saw fit to change it.” 


v 


68 


A ROOF 


"Oh, yes, I see—your father is a Jewish gentleman.” 

"Wrong, Mary, on two counts—neither a Hebrew nor 
a gentleman. But Dad’s a swell character, sterling to the 
marrow, self-made entirely. He’s the real goods, a fellow 
who came up from scratch, started life as an iron puddler.” 

"Just like my Daddy,” said Mary,—better not say 
"Papa” as Mr. Lansing wasn’t saying it—also not say 
"Mamma,” "Mother” being much more elegant. "Dad is so 
proud of coming up from scratch. But Mother is different, 
Mother is a born lady. She’s a Southerner, old Virginia 
family.” Then, just to make still better, Mary scanned the 
menu before her and ordered French dishes to show a per¬ 
fect accent on bouillon, potatoes au gratin, omelette, cham¬ 
pignon, and salad chiffonade. 

"What brought you to New York,—school?” Lance 
asked. 

"No, I’m very modern, Lance—I’m going to call you 
Lance, not Evan. But, as I was saying, like with some 
girls, society seemed so empty and I wanted a career. I 
just couldn’t see myself living a life of partying.” 

A very good line, Mary told Mary—a speech she had 
heard from one of the Junior League girls who did volun¬ 
teer work at the Mem, a very wealthy girl. 

"I’ve cut out society,” Mary quoted, "I felt life had 
more than that for me. Settlement house work has such 
an attraction for me. I love it, working with the poor in 
the tenements, helping them to higher things.” 

"What things?” Lance asked. 

"I’m a social case-worker at the Goodrich Memorial.” 

"And, for the love of Mike, what is the Goodrich Me¬ 
morial?’ 


"A social settlement house.” 




69 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"'What’s its particular line of uplift?” 

"It says in the inscription that Mr. Goodrich founded 
it for dissemination of science and culture.” 

"What do you disseminate, culture or science?” 

"Culture to give the tenement people a higher standard 
of living. But that isn’t all. The Memorial is educational; 
it has art and technical courses.” 

"Who is this Goodrich?” 

"He’s dead now, but he used to be the big ten-cent store 
man, the Goodrich Stores, you know.” 

"A model employer?” 

"No, he never had that name, he never paid his girls 
so well.” 

Lance laughed and talked for all the world like Stan 
Hayden, no respect whatever for Mr. Goodrich. Among 
other things, he said that capitalists cut their own throats 
with memorials like the Mem. He wasn’t a Red, but he 
certainly had a lot of Reddish notions! 

After a while, he got around to the strike. "What do 
you think of the riot, today?” 

"It’s an outlaw strike; the A. F. of L. didn’t back it,” 
said she. 

Then, he said something very queer. "I see, so the Old 
Girl is two-timing her true love, the A. F. of L.” But that 
is the Old Girl for you—she has lots of lovers, rafts of 
bastards.” 

How vulgar and he a high-hat! Mary flushed, her eyes 
fell, you could have knocked her over with a feather. 

"You went to school in Alda Crossing?” came the ques¬ 
tion over Lance’s avocado salad, his eyes twinkling. 

"It’s not Alda Crossing,” Mary corrected, "it’s Alda, 
and nothing wrong with its schools, either.” 


70 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

"I’m all for Alda’s schools; they’re swell. They give 
such a true Parisian accent.” 

"I learned my French from Mother; she has a lovely 
accent. And where did you go to school, Mr. Lansing?” 

"Fm Sheff, ’36.” 

"Chef,” cried Mary, "now you’re spoofing me, you’re 
not studying to be a man cook.” 

"No, Yale, the Sheffield School of Science. I’m going 
in for a B.S.” 

Great Scott, she flushed again! Then, he got it. To 
Miss Boots of Oklahoma, B.S. had quite another meaning. 
"I’m working for my bachelor of science degree,” Lance 
explained; "I like chemistry, I want to follow it, my idea 
of my own career.” 

The girl was great fun, not a bad idea to give her a 
rush for the week-end. What a post she had tied herself 
to, what a bunch she had chosen, what a terrifically serious 
gang they must be, those settlement house workers! Sure, 
the girl would like a break, a bit of real fun in the big 
city, still quite a wonderland to Mary from Alda Crossing. 

"How about the rest of the day,—any dates on?” he 
asked. 

"No, I’ve got nothing on, nothing special.” 

"How about tomorrow?” 

"No, I’ve nothing for Sunday, nothing in particular.” 

"O K with you if we make a half Saturday and a Sun¬ 
day of it?” 

"I think that would be lovely,” said Mary. 


Chapter Six 


Mrs. Effie Boots thanked God she did not have the 
twins on her hands this Sunday morning. Yesterday, Con¬ 
nie and Marge had went with the Casey kids to Queens, 
where Grandma Casey had a chicken farm. That was 
them, crazy for the country, though heaven knows what 
they saw in it or in chickens, for that matter. Now that 
Mr. Plykas had had his dinner and she had a minute to 
herself, Effie would do her exercises—such terrible exer¬ 
cises, this jumping up and trying to touch the kitchen 
ceiling with the fingertips! How tired she was of jumping 
and stretching, three whole weeks of it now, ever since 
she failed to come around with every sign of being caught, 
even to a touch of morning sickness! Of course, taking a 
tumble down stairs was the very best thing in the world 
to bring on a miscarriage; but nothing to be relied on— 
too much danger you’d get your bones broke, as in the 
case of Mrs. Lumka on the second floor when she tried it, 
although she claimed it was an accident. Anyway, the 
facts was that poor Mrs. Lumka got a double fracture of 

71 


72 


A ROOF 


the left arm—and the baby came regardless, bom seven 
months later, a healthy kid, still living. But, aside from 
another mouth to feed and a broken arm, Mrs. Lumka 
had nothing else to bother over—she had a husband on the 
premises, not a man that walked out on her, two years ago. 
Oh, dear Lord, what some in this world had to meet—the 
worries and fears and tribulations! And herself in this 
fix, in the family way, no doubt! 

"Mamma, Mamma,” yelled Mary from the living room, 
"what’s the racket about? Are you trying to knock the 
building over?” 

"Don’t mind me, dearie, I’m just trying to kill a spider 
on the ceiling.” 

Effie desisted and went to the living room where Mary 
sat on the divan, the ensemble from the "Carry On” Shop 
in her lap, a needle in her hand. On the chair before her, 
she had a looking-glass propped up, her face in full view 
to her. She always did that when she sewed, a notion of 
hers that she had to keep tabs on her expression. The 
bother and trouble that girl took over her expression, an¬ 
other of her hundred-and-one aids to beauty! Always she 
was trucking with something out of the ordinary—white 
of eggs to wash her hair, sweet butter over her face and 
hands at night, a buttermilk wash in the morning! All on 
account of something read in a beauty book, Mary 
wouldn’t use a cold cream from the drug store, forever 
afraid of ruining her delicate complexion, too precious 
fine to let soap touch it. In a minute more, Mary was 
putting the sewing things by, the ensemble finished, ready 
for pressing. Another minute and the tyrannous girl was 
in the kitchen, fussing because she couldn’t find the cord 
to the iron. 


73 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Mamma, why can’t you have a place for everything? 
Why does all the order-keeping in this house have to fall 
on me? Haven’t I told you, a thousand times, to put 
things where they belong?” 

At last, the cord was found, atop a shelf, high above 
the gas stove. As Mary pulled it down, a box fell with it. 
And what should fall out of the box but a Sweepstakes 
ticket! Then, face red as fire, didn’t she turn again on her 
poor mother! 

"Gambling, I see,” said Mary. "Some little sport, you! 
What have you to say for yourself, wasting money like 
this?” 

Effie began to cry. "I wouldn’t ’a’ bought the ticket,” 
she sobbed, "if it wasn’t for a dream I had, dreaming I 
won three hundred dollars on the Sweepstakes. It was no 
ordinary dream. It was a dream as had a hunch in it, 
leaving me the feeling it was sent me for a good purpose.” 

Like a contagious germ, prognostic credulity leaped 
from woman to girl—Mary saw three hundred dollars in 
the offing. "It’s going into the bank,” she affirmed, "every 
cent of it. I’ll stand my ground on that!” 

"But it’s the last Sweepstakes, dearie—I didn’t win, the 
dream was a false alarm.” 

The girl’s face flushed—how could she be so common, 
taking stock in a superstition? 

Humbled by the consciousness of her own brief lapse, 
Mary stood in silence, eyes fixed on her mother. 

"I should ’a’ known, dearie, I should ’a’ known I 
dreamed about that amount of money because I had it so 
on my mind. Oh, dear God, if there wasn’t some way I 
could get hold of three hundred dollars!” 

"Certainly, anybody’d like to get that much money.” 



74 


A ROOF 


"But, Mary dearie, I got a special purpose in view.” 

"Mamma, don’t talk silly! Be your age, you’re no 
baby.” 

"Dearie, have you ever thought that I’d like to be a 
free woman, rid of your Papa?” 

"Rid of him! You’ve been rid of that bum for the 
last two years.” 

"But that ain’t how I mean, I mean I’d like to get 
divorced.” 

"You can get that in three years, after you’ve been 
deserted five years.” 

"But I could have a divorce in six weeks, if I could 
get to Reno. And I got it all figured out, going by bus, 
I ought to be able to manage with three hundred dollars.” 

"If you could go to the moon! Mamma, don’t talk like 
a fool—about the same chance to go to the moon as to 
Reno.” 

"No amount of money could take a body to the moon. 
But, dearie, I got it all figured out, as how I could get a 
cut-rate bus fare to Reno and cut down my living ex¬ 
penses and get a divorce on three hundred dollars.” 

"You can’t get three hundred dollars, but you can 
wait three more years.” 

"How can a woman be sure a man will wait three years 
for her?” 

"So, that’s it! You have a man in your eye, have you, 
another bum like Papa?” 

"He ain’t no bum! He’s a steady reliable man, a hus¬ 
band as a woman could lean on.” 

"Who is he?” 

"I ain’t going to tell you. Do you ever tell me any- 


AGAINST THE RAIN 75 

thing? If you don’t confide in me, why should I confide 

• *\jy 

in you? 

"But, Mamma, I’ve a right to know.” 

"I’ve told you all you got a right to know about—that 
he’s steady and a hard worker.” 

"How do you know?” 

"He’s a widower, Mary dearie, and got the name of a 
good husband whilst his wife was living.” 

"Oh, I see! It’s Mr. Reeder?” 

"No, it ain’t him. And stop pestering me—I won’t tell 
you.” 

The girl began to press the ensemble. The man was 
Mr. Reeder, she thought; very steady, a city job, a plumb¬ 
ing inspector. Before Mrs. Reeder died, Mr. Reeder did 
have the name of being a kind husband and a good pro¬ 
vider, though rather close with money, a great saver. 
While Mary thought all the better of Mr. Reeder for his 
thrift and reputed bank account, she well knew these 
admirable traits stood in Mamma’s way to marriage. He 
was no one to finance a woman to Reno, not when a man 
could get a better housekeeper without any divorce ex¬ 
penses. And poor darling Ma so famous for feeding her 
family out of a can! How much truth in lots of things 
Stan Hayden used to say. Stan was right, we do have a 
privileged class in this country. Only a month ago, Mrs. 
Cromwell’s daughter, Mrs. Parker, got a Reno divorce to 
make a change in millionaire husbands. Other millionaires 
doing the same, all the time, the society news in the papers 
full of their Renoing and remarrying. Just read the swell 
wedding news—look at how many of them were divorced 
brides or grooms, look at how many of them the children 



76 


A ROOF 


of divorced parties. Why did Mamma have to wait five 
years to get rid of a bum like Papa? Mrs. Parker got rid of 
Mr. Parker after a six weeks’ stop in Reno. And Mr. Parker 
not a bum, all Mrs. Parker had against him was a stronger 
yen for another man. 

A pity and a shame for Mamma to lose a good catch 
like Mr. Reeder. By the time she could get divorced, she’d 
be forty-three and much heavier, her chances getting less 
with every year she lived and every pound she put on her. 
Wasn’t it enough to turn a body into a Red, hating every 
wealthy person in the world? As Mary laid the pressed 
ensemble on her bed, she saw her face in the mirror of her 
bureau. What a fierce expression! Oh, God, this would 
never do, holding thoughts that spoiled her beauty! She 
must snap out of it. She must put it all out of her mind. 
The world was as it was, and Mary Boots could not change 
it, nor could Stan’s notions change it. Since she was not 
in the class that had privileges, it was up to Mary Boots to 
get herself into the privileged class by marrying into it. 
Her only ticket on that route was her face, a ticket to take 
mighty good care of. 

Quite an effort had it been, but serene was Mary’s mind 
as she submerged her white body in a tepid bath, fragrant 
with lavender salts. She had a noble nature, she knew, the 
kind of girl who must have love as well as money—not a 
gold-digger trait in her make-up. That was another thing 
which made her so attractive, so much soul in Mary Boots, 
all of the highest order. No, she mustn’t think hard 
thoughts and look bitter—crying over Mamma’s spilt milk 
wasn’t going to help anybody. The practical thing was to 
concentrate on Mr. Carew and land him. And concentrate 
on Lance, too, and how to play one man against the other. 


77 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Mrs. Boots watched Mary depart, bound for only 
heaven knew where. What could the girl be up to? And 
her out all yesterday till past midnight! Not a word of 
her goings or her doings to her mother! No use to ask 
her, that girl could fib as fast as a horse can trot, no truth 
in her. If she went places she hadn’t ought to, or had 
wrong company, Mary was no one to tell on herself. True 
enough, Effie felt, she could scold and carry on and make 
a big ado over things like that. But where would it get 
her, or get any mother? From what she had seen of life, 
and Effie had seen plenty, it was them with strict mothers 
that turned out the worst girls in the end. Besides, Mary 
could take right good care of herself. Yes, Effie assured 
herself, Mary was hard-hearted, not a soft spot in that 
girl’s nature. Such a peculiar young person, a crust on her 
as thick as the back of a turtle! No, no man could get 
around Mary. No approach to her, less than the man had 
money and came across with marriage first. Maybe, the 
wonderful catch had showed up and Mary was on its 
trail. Yes, that must be it, something very important to 
make her miss Chapel of a Sunday, a thing she never done 
before. 

Effie stood on a chair. She took a small box from the 
highest shelf in the kitchen. Dr. Fornay’s Faithful 
Female Regulator the label was lettered. Beneath the 
label was a caution, printed in red. "This Regulator must 
not be taken during pregnancy,” read the flame colored 
warning; "Dr. Fornay hereby warns all users of his Faith¬ 
ful Regulator that it must be discontinued by all ex¬ 
pectant mothers for the reason that it is positively certain 
to cause miscarriage.” 


78 


A ROOF 


Effie took a pellet and sat down to bitter self-denuncia¬ 
tion. Who’d ever think of it, her, a woman of forty, the 
mother of three lovely girls! How could she have let her 
strong nature get the best of her like that! To let her tail 
run away with her head, at this time of life! But there 
had been so much nature in her, after she left off child¬ 
bearing. Before Billy was took with the mumps, it had 
been different—a duty, not a pleasure. But, once sure she 
was in no danger of having more kids, the worry off her 
mind, if she didn’t get like a man about such things, just 
full of strong nature, crazy for it. How it would come over 
her at times, and it so animal like, not romantic, not love, 
—just a hankering and for no special man whatever. 

And her second slip! But the first slip was different, 
only seventeen and so in love she didn’t know her knee 
from her elbow! Not like an animal, then, neither—all 
something Walter Upjohn got from her out of the softness 
of her heart, her not able to refuse him nothing. She done 
it to please Walter and all from her heart, nothing but her 
heart in it, just love for Walter. If Walter had wanted the 
two eyes from her head she’d have given in and let him 
take them from their sockets. 

Dear Lord in heaven! Think of it—Mrs. Boots, so 
highly thought of in the Neighborhood and at the Mem; 
president of the Women’s Club; and two years since Billy 
had walked out on her! But the higher you stand, the 
farther you got to fall. And if it was anywhere but the 
Neighborhood, the one place where a woman must behave 
herself! But the regulator would work—it was just slow 
working. It must be reliable, costing three dollars for two 
dozen pellets. A thing couldn’t be that dear and not be 
good. And so much trouble to get it, walking to a drug 


79 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

store where nobody knew her. But what does money 
matter, when a mother has her daughters to consider? 
What would happen to Connie and Marge in case she had 
the baby! It would mean living in the Bronx, away from 
Mem advantages. Then, the twins, not respecting their 
mother, would get all out of hand. Besides all this, they’d 
be disgraced, none of the nice Bronx girls friendly to them. 
Cut off from nice company, the twins would go wild, pick¬ 
ing up with the little tarts and punks. In no time, they’d 
be tarts themselves—then, the Children’s Court and sent 
up for stretches in a reformatory. Then, on top of it all, 
the effect on Mary, tied up with a family that was sinking 
her. 

This to happen to her now, and the honest woman she 
had been, a true wife to Billy Boots. Nor was Billy deceived 
into marrying her, he was well paid for it, a boy in the 
Upjohn stables, glad to get two hundred pounds and second 
class passage to New York. That is what Walter gave 
Billy for marrying the girl he got into trouble, poor little 
Effie Moggett, and her too heart-broke and scared to have 
a word to say in the arrangement. Scared of so many 
things, most of all scared to disgrace her father, an honest 
man and no one to take kind to a bastard in his house. 
God be thanked, Papa died, going to his grave believing 
Mary was Billy’s lawful child. Nor did the New York 
neighbors ever suspicion the truth; all the neighbors 
thought Effie was married for a year when Mary was born. 
Billy never spilled no beans, neither—with all that man’s 
faults, he was a true enough Englishman to stand by a 
bargain, once he made it. At first, he did try to get more 
than two hundred pounds out of Walter, and Walter could 
easy have paid it, him the son of one of the biggest mill 


80 


A ROOF 


owners in Manchester. What people they were, the Upjohns 
—close-fisted, self-minded, all intent to get up high in 
the world. They was plain folk to begin with, weavers 
themselves a while back. Such a penny-pinching family, 
the kind that makes money and pushes up to the top. 
Mary had many of their traits—that girl so much like 
Walter, her father. 

Six years now since Effie had had a letter from the Old 
Country—after Cousin Ivy died, there was no more letters. 
But Ivy’s last letter had big news: Walter had been created 
a baron, he was Lord Upjohn of Creighton. For all one 
might know, he was higher than that by now—an earl, or 
a marquis, maybe. It was in the blood to rise, a stingy, 
hard-hearted breed—Walter like the rest of them. The 
wreck he had made of Effie Moggett, him so hot in his blood 
and cold in his heart—her meaning nothing to him in the 
end. 

But Mr. Plykas was different, him only too willing to 
marry a woman he got into trouble. How terrible Mr. 
Plykas felt about it, like to drive him crazy, his heart 
that kind! Such a feeling man, and, as God knows, he was 
met more than halfway in the first instance. Not that Effie 
had any evil in mind, last Thanksgiving Day, the first time 
she fell into sin since she had sinned with Walter. First, 
after a good chicken dinner, Mary and the twins went to 
the movies; then, clearing up the table in the dinette, there 
was a lot of good things still left on the table. Nothing 
could have been innocenter than fixing up a bit of Thanks¬ 
giving dinner for Mr. Plykas and taking it to him as he 
lay abed in his room. But, once a man and a woman get 
started having it to do, a thing like that is bound to con¬ 
tinue. Then, too, something about Mr. Plykas; no judging 


81 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

a man’s appearance. He certainly was nothing to look at, 
a shrimp of a fellow, no figger or looks whatever. But 
a way with him, howsoever, little as a body might expect it 
of Mr. Plykas. 

Thinking over a trouble is no way to get out of it, 
Effie told herself. The thing to do was to take a long, long 
walk, today—walking and walking to help the regulator 
to work on her. That was it, to walk and walk, walk 
till tomorrow morning, if necessary. To bring a woman 
around, there was nothing better than getting so tuckered 
out that it left you about half dead. 


Chapter Seven 


Late that Sunday afternoon, Lance handed Mary from 
his roadster in front of a big apartment house in Sutton 
Place, his idea of taking her home. But could anything be 
more marvellous, the ride she was giving that high-hat? 
He was an easy mark and had her dated up for the fol¬ 
lowing week-end. Yes, she had always felt she had it in 
her to land a Somebody, if ever she got a good chance to 
put herself over. Why not? Hadn’t she the looks, the 
appeal, the chic to swing it? And refinement as well. 
But a funny thing about refinement, the Mem refinement, 
so much of it hooey! Lance ran into a swell couple, last 
night at after-theatre supper, real Socialites, living in Park 
Avenue. They used a lot of common words; they said guts, 
guy, bitchy, lousy —they used dumb for stupid, swell for 
elegant, butt in for intruding. There didn’t seem a thing 
taught in the Mem English classes that they followed in 
their speaking. 

Sure, Mary wasn’t dumb, she told herself. She was on 
to a lot, on to the fact that, when any bunch was together, 

82 


83 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

they talked naturally among themselves. Refinement was 
a dress parade, put on for the other fellow, the fellow who 
wasn’t in your own bunch. How funny. All the Some¬ 
bodies talked ladylike at the Mem, and the Neighbors came 
back with a ladylike performance for the Somebodies! 

Mary congratulated herself she was the smart one, slicker 
than satin. How wonderful of her to tell Lance she lived 
in Sutton Place and get these swell dates from him! If she 
had said 17 Goodrich Place, Mr. Lansing would have 
dropped her there in a hurry, before he even took his car 
to be washed. Young gentlemen with bank president 
fathers may pick up girls beneath them, but not good girls, 
not the kind that won’t go the limit with them. 

On the Second Avenue El, bound for the Neighborhood, 
Mary’s thoughts ran on. My God, think of it, Lance fall¬ 
ing for her like a house afire! Sure he was! What else 
could it be? He wasn’t coming down from New Haven, 
next Saturday, just to give his car the exercise. And the 
grand time he had shown her, the gorgeous feeds, the swell 
Broadway show! The wonderful things he said, that she 
looked at him from her long amber eyes and raised his 
ego, made him feel he was a hell of a guy! How he adored 
her skin, its fine grain, that her cheeks showed no texture, 
that she was encased in a flawless envelope of flower petal 
tissue! He sure was nuts on her skin, like it was all he 
could do to keep his hands off her. At times, it seemed 
he wanted to eat her up. But a perfect gentleman, regard¬ 
less, only once forgetting himself. A call-down brought 
him to order in a jiffy—after that, no more attempts to 
take liberties. Later on, however, he did kiss her neck, 
scaring the gizzard out of her, more at herself than at 


84 


A ROOF 


him. How it went all through her, the neck such a feel¬ 
ful part of the body. How queer, too, learning, all of a 
sudden, that she had a passionate nature! So low of her, 
to give that feeling to a stranger when all her heart and 
love were for Mr. Carew! But, after all, she knew so little 
about herself, having never had a real boy friend. Stan 
Hayden taught a girl nothing. Stan didn’t believe in 
petting; he said it was adolescent, all kid stuff. Yet, in the 
movies, the long close kisses and the hang-over they leave 
after them, so conscious of your own mouth and what 
you’d like done to it. 

Something very sweet in Lance, magnetic, too, and tons 
of fascination. But a good kid. So good that Mary felt 
very sorry for the young man. What a raw deal he would 
get from her! But her conscience was clear. The raw deal 
was all for Lance’s best good, a lesson to him in the future. 
He had too trusting a nature and should be taught not 
to believe everything a strange girl told him. While it 
would go hard on him when he found out he had been 
taken for a ride, it was the cure he needed. If he continued 
this trusting, he was in for real trouble; and one of these 
days, he’d be picked up by a gold-digger, a bad egg. He 
was right in line for just such a scrape, the same scrape that 
was in the papers, last week, a young millionaire who 
picked up a girl in a night club. The girl was a lure for 
a gang of racketeers. And how they plucked that boob, 
shook him down for thousands of dollars before he cried 
S O S to his father! Yes, Lance would feel terrible when 
he got wise to the fact that he had fallen hard for a fake. 
But it would be worth the heart-break it gave him. From 
that on, he would be careful, never again ready to give 
his heart and trust to a perfect stranger. 


85 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

From the Elevated station, Mary hurried to the Vicarage, 
determined to catch Mr. Carew before evening services. 
Better not go to the Vicarage front door at this hour on 
Sunday because Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper, would 
say Mr. Carew was at his supper and couldn’t be bothered. 
She was an awful woman, acting more like she was a bishop 
than a servant. But you could get into the Vicarage through 
the Congregation House, which was always open. 

Arrived at the Congregation House, Mary spent ten 
minutes in the dressing room of the Ladies’ Guild, freshen¬ 
ing her make-up. The windows of the Vicar’s office were 
almost against the Chapel wall, only sun-lighted in the 
middle of the day. When satisfied with her appearance, 
the girl slipped down the corridor that gave to the Vicarage. 
As he came from his supper, Mr. Carew would stop for a 
word with her, saying he missed her from morning service. 
He was that way, always noticing an absence in the con¬ 
gregation. Then, she’d say she felt she was in great danger 
and had to have a talk with him in private. Open the 
talk by telling Mr. Carew that Mr. Lansing wanted to set 
her up in a gorgeous apartment of her own, promising to 
take her abroad, later in the spring, for a trip around the 
world with him. 

The passage from the Congregation House opened into 
a hall. As Mary went along the hall and past the dining 
room, there was Mr. Llewellyn, the choir master, with a 
complaint for the Vicar’s ear. A napkin in one hand, a 
toasted muffin in the other, Mr. Carew stood in the 
dining room door and listened patiently as he ate the muffin. 
And there was Mrs. Morgan, fussing, claiming he must go 
back to the table and finish his supper. As usual, she was 
mad as a hornet, chattering away like a magpie, such an 


86 A ROOF 

ado about how Mr. Carew let everybody impose on him, 
without even the time to dine properly. 

"Out of here with you,” she turned on the choir¬ 
master; "manage your own choir troubles; you’re paid well 
enough for it. The presumption of you coming here at 
meal time, keeping an overworked man from his nourish¬ 
ment! And that goes for you too, Miss Boots. Get along 
with you and let a poor man have a bite to eat in peace.” 
But, as always, the Vicar, a lovely character, told Mary to 
go to the office where he would see her in a few minutes. 

Then, seated in the office, Mary began to think of 
Mrs. Morgan, a problem on her hands some day, that 
frightful woman, worse than a mother-in-law! Somehow, 
someway, she must get rid of the housekeeper, just so soon 
as she was Mrs. Michael Carew. A man’s own wife was the 
one to take care of his health, and the Vicar wasn’t looking 
so well, it seemed to Mary; overwork, undoubtedly, break¬ 
ing him down all of a sudden. He had failed rapidly in the 
past week, getting a stoop, just back of his neck, between 
the shoulders. It must be his overdoing, not lack of nourish¬ 
ment as Mrs. Morgan thought. He looked pounds heavier 
than he had last Sunday, at Mr. Goodrich’s funeral. In 
fact, he seemed fattish, not the least like Saint Michael, 
or the young officer in the picture above his desk. 

Mary rose and switched on the ceiling light. Again it 
thrilled her as it never failed to thrill her, Captain Carew 
of the Princess Pats. He was glorious, gorgeous, glamorous, 
a real hero. How slim under his broad square shoulders, the 
belt and trappings bringing out the figure. Such long legs, 
so perfect from kilt hem to heel! 

"Good evening, Mary, how are you? Have I kept you 


AGAINST THE RAIN 87 

waiting? By the by, I didn’t see you in Chapel, this 
morning.” 

How queer, looking at him now in person, something 
had happened to Mr. Carew’s legs—shortening them, 
thickening them! He seemed stiff. In the picture, he was 
all spring, like a tiger, light, agile! 

"Why so mute, this evening, Mary? Something on your 
mind?” 

He stood under the drop-light in the ceiling, looking 
exactly like the Vicar and, yet, not at all like him. 

"What is it, Mary?” he repeated. 

"I’m worried about you, Mr. Carew, you’re not looking 
yourself, this evening. Have you been sick?” 

"Never felt better in my life.” 

"You’ve been overworking, this last week.” 

"Not at all, I’ve been playing a bit, off for three days, 
had a great time of it.” 

"But, Mr. Carew, you should have taken more than 
three days off. That’s how some people are,” Mary cau¬ 
tioned, "they keep neglecting themselves, overworking 
until they wind up in a breakdown, their health ruined.” 

He laughed at that, and funny little wrinkles ran down 
his cheeks. Not only lines in his cheeks, he had lines in 
his neck and his chin took a drop over his high collar. 

Again, somebody came to pester him, Mr. Allen, the 
sexton, this time. When Mr. Carew went into the outer 
office, Mary walked back to the picture. Queer, but she 
had never noticed the young officer at the left before, the 
youngest and handsomest of the group. He might be 
Lance, the resemblance that striking. Lance would be 
marvellous in uniform, so straight, such a perfect figure. 


88 


A ROOF 


If anything, he was handsomer than the Canadian officer, 
better featured, his eyes especially. Nicer ears, too, more 
close to his head. Neither did the officer’s mouth compare 
with Lance’s, nothing like as firm and masterful. And his 
teeth—so white and even, positively perfect. Lance’s neck 
was wonderful, like a statue’s, an art neck, no Adam’s apple 
showing. His chin, showing a strong character, kind of 
squarish, like Clark Gable’s, only ever so much better. 
Lance’s light brown hair! Lance’s dark gray eyes! 

When the Vicar returned, Mary noticed his hair was 
getting thin on top. God, how awful, Mr. Carew to be 
bald-headed! His hair looked so dry, deadish, falling out 
on him. A little while and he’d look nothing like Saint 
Michael. It was an awful thing to think of, him bald- 
headed. 

"You have something to tell me, haven’t you, Mary?” 

She was mute, a hesitating pucker to her lips, a touch 
of horror in her eyes. 

"Sit down, Mary,” he said then, and placed a chair by 
his desk for her. 

Mr. Carew seated himself, the desk lamp full on his face. 

The light caught the bristles in his ears. Other bristles 
in his nostrils, longer hairs which moved as he spoke, his 
breath stirring them. 

"You can tell me anything, can’t you, Mary?” The tone 
was gentle. 

Her throat closed. Her eyes smarted. She was an un¬ 
worthy person. How terrible she felt, how simply awful, 
sick all over! He was such a good man, wanting to help 
her. She had never been on the square with him, always 
telling him fibs about her feelings for Stanley. 

"I feel you are in some trouble, Mary. What is it?” 


89 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

It was nothing she could tell him, she just couldn’t. 

"You came here to tell me something, didn’t you, 
Mary?” 

"Yes,” she admitted tearfully. 

"Then, tell me,” he said. 

"I can’t,” she heard her own words with surprise that 
touched pain. Tears followed the initial shock, and Mary 
choked on the next sentence. "Mr. Carew, it’s terrible to 
have to say it. But I can’t go on the way I been going. 
Please don’t think the worst of me; but what I had in mind 
to tell you isn’t true. You are such a wonderful gentleman, 
Mr. Carew, so fatherly and holy. I can’t find it in my 
heart to go on, fibbing to you, like I have been doing. I 
haven’t been on the square with you, never. I’ve told you 
any amount of things that weren’t so, all the things about 
me and Stanley Hayden, me in love with him, when I 
wasn’t. I never cared a fig for Stan, I never was in no 
danger of falling for a free-union racket.” She went on in 
contrite tears, grammar thrown to the winds in the sincerity 
of the moment. The confession was from her heart, as she 
had said in an outburst of unwonted honesty, too spontane¬ 
ous for correct wording. "I’ve fibbed a lot to you, Mr. 
Carew, lots of times. From the first, when you came to 
St. Botolph’s, I wanted you to get interested in me. I 
wanted you thinking more about me than you was thinking 
about any of the other girls in the congregation. I wanted 
to be first in your mind, keeping you in a stew about me. 
I thought Stan would worry you, him a Red atheist. 
That’s why I took up with him, and pestered you over being 
in danger of a free-love union, me living in sin with him. 
And it all a fib on my part, Stan Hayden was more than 
willing to marry me. I’m very sorry, Mr. Carew, how I 


90 A ROOF 

lied to you. It was very wicked in me. I’m sorry enough 
to cry.” 

She did cry then, sobs beyond her control, shamed and 
penitent. 

"Now, now, Mary, it’s perfectly all right; just a dramatic 
flair, no call to shed tears. I’m sure I’m beginning to 
understand.” A pat on her shoulder, and he rose, took a 
prolonged look at his picture; and, without another word, 
walked about the room. Round and round, he went, slowly, 
saying nothing, his eyes on the floor. 

"I lied to you, Mr. Carew, when I said that Stanley 
was making me lose my faith in God and religion and that 
I was afraid it might end by me being an atheist. I never 
was in no such danger of losing my faith.” 

Never was in no such danger, Mary heard her own 
words. My God, she was talking as bad as Mamma! She 
hadn’t talked like that for the last two years! Perhaps, 
occasionally, but not often, certainly not within the last 
year. How hard she tried with grammar, ever since Mr. 
Carew came to the Chapel! With shame-flushed face, 
she took a sharp look at the Vicar. Maybe, he hadn’t 
heard her slips; he didn’t seem listening. He seemed to 
have something else on his mind, kind of stunned, like he 
had got a death blow, or something. And tramp, tramp, 
how he kept walking the floor. His heart was breaking, 
that was why he kept walking like he didn’t know what he 
was doing, all shot to pieces because he was, at last, wise to 
his own feelings for her. Poor Mr. Carew, it was going to 
be hard on him, realizing he’d lost her, just the moment 
he came love-conscious. How terrible, her appeal and 
fatal beauty, ruining the Vicar’s life and happiness! What 
a story it could make, what a picture to put on the screen! 


91 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

But some women are that way, just born to make unhap¬ 
piness for the finest men in the world. 

Mary’s fingers locked in her lap, her eyes fixed on 
Captain Carew with the Princess Pats in Flanders Field, 
or wherever he was when the picture was taken. 

"Mary, why your sudden interest in that old picture?” 

"It’s not a sudden interest—I always liked that picture. 
How wonderful you were then, Mr. Carew, so young 
and handsome!” 

He came back and sat at his desk. "Tell me,” he began; 
"but think a full minute before you answer. Did you, 
Mary, by any chance, get the calendar mixed up? Did 
you confuse a middle-aged priest with a young soldier? 
Don’t speak yet, keep thinking back. When I got all your 
cock-and-bull stories, to whom did you tell them? Were 
you telling me, or were you telling the chap in the 
picture?” 

"I guess, Mr. Carew, it was the chap in the picture.” 

"Mary, you have long eyes, your eyes are far apart, 
you have the face of Juliet. You are not a liar, you are a 
romanticist.” 

"I know I must be something very wicked, Mr. Carew, 
trying to deceive a holy man that I ought been looking 
up to like a father.” 

"Now, Mary, we have it all straightened out. I’m 
fatherly, I am holy. So, tell me now, why have you been 
lying to me?” 

"I wanted you interested in me, Mr. Carew, when you 
first came to the Chapel, the first time I saw you, I wanted 
you interested in me.” 

"Yes, you’ve already told me that; but what I want to 
get at is why did you want me interested?” 


92 


A ROOF 


Mary’s face flushed, her lips trembling—but, she en¬ 
couraged herself, she owed it to her better self, to her soul, 
to come clean with the Vicar. "I fell for you,” came her 
confession, staccato, in a low monotone; "and I wanted 
to fall for you. You are a good catch, Mr. Carew. Long 
ago, just a kid then, I made up my mind to marry safe, 
but there had to be love in it. You were both, safe and 
easy to love. I made up my mind to get you. To get you, 
I had to see you often. To do that, I had to get you in¬ 
terested in me. But I made a mistake and I just found it 
out. I don’t love you the way I thought I did. Yet, in 
another way, I love you more, it’s even deeper, but a dif¬ 
ferent kind of love.” 

"How’s that, Mary?” 

"Can’t you see, the way I feel for you now, I can 
tell you everything, and come to you like you were my 
father.” 

"But didn’t you love me when you lied to me?” 

"All girls lie in love, that kind of love, Mr. Carew.” 

"Suddenly, tonight, I am holy, fatherly —why, Mary?” 

"It’s real friendship, now, Mr. Carew, and true friends 
can’t lie to each other about anything—they’re got to be 
on the square.” 

"Mary, has the fact that my blooming hair is walking out 
on me, that I’ve increased two stone in weight, the last 
six months, anything to do with it?” 

"Yes, Mr. Carew, very much to do with it—I couldn’t 
go after a man unless I felt awfully romantic about him.” 

Then, in came Mrs. Morgan, giving orders, the nerve 
of her, telling the Vicar it was a quarter to eight, high time 
he was getting vested and ready for Evening Prayer in 
the Chapel! 


AGAINST THE RAIN 93 

"So it is,” he said, looking at his wrist watch; "thank 
you, Mrs. Morgan.” 

"Be back here, after Prayer,” he called to Mary over 
the housekeeper’s shoulder, "I want to ask you . . .” 

The sentence was drowned in Mrs. Morgan’s voice, again 
at her fussing. 

Mary went to Chapel, kneeling far back in one of the 
side pews. In her sad state of mind, she must be to herself, 
apart from the rest of the evening’s congregation. What 
a terrible feeling, almost like she was a widow, losing such 
a husband as Mr. Carew! But saddest of all was giving up 
little Michael, her baby son, never to be born to her and 
the Vicar. He was such a darling kid, in little pants, short 
over his round dimpled knees. Tiny, wee Michael, who 
was to love her so, her own little son, crazy over his 
mamma! 

But, my God, she was in love! It was Lance, and all in 
a mess, the pack of lies she had told him! How could she 
ever straighten them out now, square herself with him? 
The worst lie was about her job, saying she was a social 
worker, the worst because the easiest to check up. What 
if Lance knew some New York high-hats, ladies on the 
Mem Board, and said he knew Miss Boots, one of their staff 
workers? Oh, dear Lord, if she could only get on the 
Mem staff! Mr. Carew was on the Board, one of its in¬ 
fluential members, the only one of them that wasn’t afraid 
of Mrs. Cromwell. Mrs. Cromwell wouldn’t be down on 
her, either, not after the Vicar told her that it was all off 
with Stan Hayden, the thing Cromwell had in her nose 
when she butted in on the Girls’ Senior Guild’s choice for 
president. 


94 


A ROOF 


Mary’s eyes turned to the altar and the man who loved 
her, a noble, unselfish man, and she his hopeless passion, 
eating his heart out in secret for a love he did not realize 
until it was lost to him. What a wonderful story it was, 
like Ronald Colman in Sidney Carton; nothing Mr. Carew 
wouldn’t do for Mary Boots, just like Lucy in the movie! 
Whoever would think it, to look at her, here in this pew, 
that Mr. Carew’s life was ruined by her? But something 
about lost love, its sweet sadness. Here Mary’s train of 
thought yielded to emotion, she laid her face in her hands 
and wept silently, back in the shadow of the pillared organ- 
loft. Oh, what did she remind herself of? It was some¬ 
thing, Mary felt, a show they put on at the Mem theatre. 
Now it came to her, "Czarina,” and Mary was given the 
title role. But Mrs. Cromwell took the part away and gave 
it to Kathleen Cohen. The Czarina was hard-boiled, but 
that was not her true nature, and she cried over it in the 
show, exactly as Mary was crying now, both victims of 
cruel circumstances. It was a wonderful show, the loveliest 
costumes, and Mrs. Cromwell had gone over the script, 
making it perfectly moral, having the gentlemen the 
Czarina’s fiances, not fellows she had affairs with. Yes, 
Mary assured herself, she was exactly like the Czarina, a 
gentle womanly character, hardened by circumstances. 
What a wonderful girl she would have been with a father 
like Mr. Carew and raised in a home like the Vicarage! 
The power of that holy man and how he could touch her 
true inner nature! And, fresh from seeing her inner nature, 
revealed in her confession, he would do all he could for her 
now that he realized that she looked upon him as a father. 

After Evening Prayer, Mary returned to the Vicarage 
office to find Mr. Carew had taken the Princess Pats from 


AGAINST THE RAIN 95 

the wall and put Saints Peter and Paul over his desk in¬ 
stead. Then he called Mrs. Morgan and told her to hang 
the other picture in his room upstairs. 

"I’d like to ask a great favor of you,” Mary said as 
the door closed on the housekeeper. "I want to be a social 
worker on the regular Mem staff. Do you think, Mr. 
Carew, you could help me to get placed?” 

Mr. Carew said nothing. But Mary could see he was 
in deep thought. If she could only get a line on what was 
in his head as he sat there at his desk, his thumbs together, 
his eyes fixed straight before him, looking at nothing in 
particular! 

The Vicar’s thoughts were of a serious turn. They con¬ 
cerned a certain matter brought before the last session of 
the Board, a session that ended in a sharp clash between 
Mrs. Cromwell and Ramsey. The issue was the one thou¬ 
sand dollars that Goodrich wished to give Mary Boots on 
his deathbed. Goodrich’s last request, Ramsey held, was a 
trust imposed upon him and that it would be brought up 
before the Board at every coming session until Mrs. Crom¬ 
well concurred with his convictions on the subject. Now, 
Carew felt, Mary herself had solved the problem. The 
solution took form in the Carew mind. That amazing 
woman, Annie Elliot, needed an assistant at the Annex. 
The salary was twenty dollars weekly. How about giving 
Mary a fifty week contract, as a working member on the 
Annex staff? Mrs. Cromwell would jump at that, glad to 
forestall any possible raid on the Emergency Fund. Mary’s 
fitness would not enter into question. If Mrs. Cromwell 
should consider the Boots girl unfitted for the position, 
all the more amiable would she be; glad to hand the girl 
over to Miss Elliot, her pet aversion. The only question 


96 


A ROOF 


in the Vicar’s mind was what was best for Mary. Should 
the girl get the little legacy, or have the opportunity to fit 
herself for an Annex worker? 

"Now, tell me,” asked the Vicar; "first of all, I want to 
know why this wish of yours to be a social worker?” 

Mary realized she could not tell Mr. Carew her reason, 
neither could she lie to him. One could not lie to one’s 
best friend on earth. 

"Mary, I’m waiting,” urged the Vicar, "I want to know 
why this sudden wish of yours to be a social worker?” 

"To help me make a better marriage. I’m set on that 
point, Mr. Carew; I either marry well, or I’ll die an old 
maid.” 

"Tut, tut, Mary, you’re not that mercenary—you, the 
romanticist.” 

"But I won’t be mercenary, Mr. Carew; I must marry 
for love as well as riches.” 

"I see, the spectacular must enter into your drama.” He 
laughed, his face suddenly oldish and wrinkled, the eyes 
especially. 

"No, Mr. Carew, I’ve gone to bed, a hungry kid, for 
too many nights, my stomach like a pain inside me. You 
got no idea what it is to get up in a cold flat and try to eat 
laundry starch, the only thing in the cupboard. I’ve 
swallowed lots of things that weren’t food, I’ve been that 
desperate hungry. Cold hurts, too, a terrible feeling. Papa 
was an awful man, not above taking her week’s pay away 
from Mamma.” 

He got up, just as he had before, earlier in the evening, 
walking around the room, hands behind his back, eyes on 
the floor. When he went back to his desk chair, the Vicar 
said nothing, either—just took out his key-chain, running 


97 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

his thumb-nail through the notches of a key, one key after 
another, over and over, as if he had discovered the most 
fascinating game in the world. 

'‘Mary,” the silence broke finally, "there’s an opening at 
the Annex, a sort of girl-in-waiting to Miss Elliot. It 
would tie you up with the Case Work. Do you feel you 
could fill it?” 

"I do, I’m sure I can, Mr. Carew!” 

"Why are you so confident?” 

"I’m close-mouthed, for one thing. I never get myself 
into hot water by talking. You know that’s necessary in 
social work, keeping the business strictly confidential.” 

"Quite true,” he agreed with her. "But Miss Elliot may 
be difficult, you know.” 

"Difficult people are not as difficult as most people think, 
Mr. Carew. In a way, they are the easiest people, all a 
matter of falling in with their notions, playing up to 
them.” 

"But you, Mary, might occasionally have other notions 
of your own.” 

"I will have only one notion, Mr. Carew, to get to be 
a social worker by pleasing Miss Elliot.” 

At that he took both her wrists, slapping her hands 
together, like making her give herself an encore, Mary 
thought. And how he laughed till the tears almost came 
to his eyes. But not making fun of her, nothing like that. 

"Get home with you now,” he said. "Have a good night’s 
sleep and don’t worry. I’ll see Judge Ramsey, tomorrow.” 

"And you feel sure you can land the job for me, 
Mr. Carew?” 

"It’s landed already. The job is there, Mary, waiting for 


98 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

Mary left the Vicarage. She walked home in a struggle 
to adjust herself to the swirl of this strange day in her 
life—one day, a few hours—but far more important than 
all the years behind her. She did not love Mr. Carew. 
She loved Lance, Evan Lansing, a perfect stranger! Such a 
peculiar stranger with the strangest, most peculiar notions 
about money! He didn’t seem to care for it. He wanted to 
be a chemist, not a banker. If he kept that stunt up for 
very long, his father might turn on him. How terrible if 
old Mr. Lansing would do like Mr. Goodrich and leave all 
his money to a memorial, or something like that! 

But Lance wasn’t going to pull any such screwy stuff 
on her, not on Mary Boots. Of course, she would let him 
think he was pulling it and they would be married without 
any disagreements. On the surface, she would fall in with 
all his haywire ideas. Mary smiled to herself. The first 
year they were married, she would have a baby; another, 
the next year. If it could only be twins, the second time! 
Maybe, it would be. Twins run in families and Mamma 
was a twin herself. Then, before Lance realized it, there 
would be a family for him to take care of. That would 
bring him to life, the hooey all knocked out of him! With 
family responsibilities on his hands, he would see sense and 
get down to making big money at banking, and to the 
serious business of raising a parcel of kids. 


Second Book 



Chapter Eight 


When the Memorial building was designed, the Good¬ 
rich architect had been Ionically inspired. The result was 
a distended cartoon of the Erechtheum, shot up to the 
height of eight storeys. At that time Simeon had wanted 
portico effects, pediments, inscriptions. The Annex build¬ 
ing was quite different: a ramified burlesque on the 
Cathedral of Ely. As Gothic structure, the Annex might be 
called a scheme rather than a design. When Simeon had 
decided to build this second house of philanthropic ac¬ 
tivity, he was in no mood for porticoes and pediments. 

"The inscription on the Memorial was put there to 
please my niece, Alice Otis,” he told the architect. "All 
her idea, saying I founded it for the dissemination of science 
and culture.” 

"But the new building should also be inscribed,” the 
architect protested. 

"Then, tell the truth for once. Have it read: 'Founded 
and endowed by Simeon Goodrich to end a pack of god¬ 
damn rumors put in circulation to injure his business.’ ” 

101 


102 


A ROOF 


All quite true, this outburst from Simeon. 

Six years ago, rumors were afloat that the Goodrich 
Memorial discriminated against certain racial groups. As 
rumors grew and spread, Goodrich saw good reason to fear 
a boycott on his ten-cent store system. 

His first appeal had been to Mrs. Cromwell. "'Look here, 
Cornie,” he thundered, "I’m not going to stand for your 
czaring it here, any longer. You’re not going to get my 
stores in bad and start a boycott on me. I’m here to tell 
you what’s what—and you’ll listen.” 

"I am listening, Simeon. Please continue; what is it?” 

"I’m calling a halt on your tactics, Cornie,” and the 
Goodrich hand came down with a bang on the Cromwell 
desk. "You’ve got to make this concern a free-for-all. 
You can’t go on keeping it a technical school for the 
United Can Company and a exclusive club-house for your 
employees.” 

"But, Simeon, the Memorial is for the neighborhood in 
general without the least restriction in regard to our 
members’ employment.” 

"Yes, after you took mighty good care to fill the neigh¬ 
borhood with model tenements and pack them with your 
United Can workers. And how did you do it? You did 
it by trading on the importance of your heading up the 
Goodrich Memorial. On my money, you posed as the big- 
shot philanthropist. You kept your name before the pub¬ 
lic with the Memorial behind you. You cashed in on an 
institution I keep up. You use me and rake in funds and 
the backing to get better housing for your own employees.” 

Mrs. Cromwell lifted her calm gaze to Goodrich’s irate 
face. "But, Simeon, you do not understand,” she said, her 
voice and manner unruffled. 


103 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Don’t understand, eh? The hell I don’t. But, be that 
as it may, now listen to something we can both under¬ 
stand. The Memorial is, at last, going to be run as I want 
it to run—no more hand-picked membership, no more 
giving my competitors the chance to work up group feel¬ 
ing against me to reflect back on my business. This place 
has got to be as democratic as a Goodrich store, everybody, 
no matter who, given equal values and consideration. You 
fight me on this—and out you go on your ear, Cornelia 
Johnson Cromwell!” 

For any expression Goodrich could detect on the Siouan 
face before him, he might have been asking the lady out 
to luncheon. Her tones never changed pitch, nor betrayed 
the least emotional stress. 

"No, Simeon, I will not change the conduct and policy 
of the Memorial, nor do I fancy I shall go out on my ear, 
either.” 

"You heard what I just said, didn’t you?” 

"I’m quite sure the entire block heard you. Your voice 
is unusually powerful this afternoon, Simeon. But, since 
you have brought this up, you compel me to enumerate 
facts which I find quite distressing to mention. First of 
all, Simeon, please understand you are in no position to 
cross swords with me.” 

"What you mean, Cornie—a threat, is it?” 

"Yes, Simeon, conditional on your own threat to me.” 

"If you go out on your ear, you mean to raise hell, do 
you?” 

"Precisely.” 

"Go ahead, crack your whip!” 

"Very well, Simeon.” At that, Cornelia ordered her 
car, instructed Miss Hastings, her secretary, to collect all 



104 A ROOF 

personal effects in the office and have them sent to her 
Park Avenue apartment. 

“Quitting, are you?” 

“Yes, going out on my ear, Simeon.” 

“With something up your sleeve, of course?” 

“Quite to the contrary, I will lay down all my cards. 
If you have the patience, I’ll go over my hand with you. 
I believe in fighting fairly, but I will fight.” 

“How the hell can you fight me, what have you got to 
attack me on?” 

“Simeon, you are so vulnerable that it is difficult to 
understand why you have not been attacked before this. 
Your stores are notorious for their treatment of their 
workers. I’ve no doubt you do fear a boycott. My only 
wonder is that you are not already boycotted by labor 
agitators. Your employees are the lowest paid in Greater 
New York. Your salesgirls are fined continually. They 
have no decent comforts nor accommodations provided 
for them. They are forced to eat their lunches in sub¬ 
basement washrooms, that is, when they can afford 
lunches.” 

“So, Mrs. Cromwell, the uplift big shot, on her quali¬ 
fications that my money got her, goes gunning for the 
Goodrich system, does she? Starts a movement to make 
me raise my wage schedule, have personal maids for my 
salesgirls, and sedan chairs to take them up to lunch in 
penthouse rest rooms that I’ve got to build on every damn 
building I’ve got a store in!” 

“The sedan chairs and personal maids are your own sug¬ 
gestions, not mine, Simeon.” 

“Just lay off on going out on your ear, this afternoon, 
Cornie. Stick around, a while yet. Meanwhile, I’m off 


AGAINST THE RAIN 105 

to see Ramsey. I’ll talk it over with old Hec and hear 
what he has to say about it.” 

"For once, I agree with Cornelia,” Goodrich’s lawyer 
told him. Simeon, you should be boycotted; it’s been 
coming to you for a long time.” 

"Look here, Hec Ramsey, you or nobody else can tell 
me how to run my business.” 

"You know what I think of your business methods.” 

"I didn’t ask you what you thought of my business 
methods. I asked you what you thought of the mess 
Cornelia has made of the Memorial.” 

"Start an annex, Simeon, free-for-all, flagrantly demo¬ 
cratic. Take in the applicants Cornelia has rejected. Give 
to them freely, give till it hurts.” 

So it was that, in due time, the Annex appeared in an 
adjacent and less economically favored district than the 
Memorial Neighborhood. When it was completed, Judge 
Ramsey’s very dear friend, Miss Elliot, became its Mrs. 
Cromwell. The Headworker was Mrs. Mason, as self- 
effacing an executive as Miss Merton at the Memorial. 

From the day of its commencement, the Ann was a suc¬ 
cess—it gave so much, it asked so little. Russell House, 
the old settlement in the district, struggled on through an 
ensuing year of defaulting membership, then closed its 
doors forever. Next, Christopher Guild was the sufferer. 
The bushwhacker in the field, the Ann, went on to greater 
glory. There is no such thing as fighting Santa Claus, be 
Santa’s methods ever so irregular. Finally, the officials of 
the Federated Settlement Houses had a conference with 
Simeon. Simeon was glad enough to confer amiably with 
the officials. He had no wish to endow and build any 


106 


A ROOF 


more Annexes. On their part, the Federated Houses were 
more than glad to restrict the guerilla on their flank. A 
zone was the result of the conference. Four specified streets 
were marked as boundaries beyond which no new members 
could be admitted to Annex clubs or activities. 

When Mary walked through the Gothic portal of the 
Ann, she was first ushered into Mrs. Mason’s office. The 
Headworker was friendly, well pleased to welcome a 
worker who could take immediate hold on her new duties. 

"I’m so delighted that you can begin at once,” Mrs. 
Mason went on, "I’ve needed another helper so much, and 
I’m sure we shall get on splendidly together, Miss Boots. 
So wonderful, wasn’t it, of Mrs. Cromwell to select one 
of her own girls for this position?” 

Before Mary could answer, Miss Kramer, one of the 
Ann secretaries, also a Mem girl, came in with a stack of 
letters, planked them down on the desk before Mrs. Mason. 
"Miss Elliot says please sign these quick as you can,” said 
Miss Kramer, "she wants them off in the next mail.” 

From her side seat, Mary watched the Headworker 
write "Charlotte Bartholomay Mason” at the bottom of the 
first letter. 

"No,” Miss Kramer countermanded, "Miss Elliot said 
not to take time for your full name. She’s in a hurry, she 
said just to use the initials of your two first names.” 

And didn’t the fountain pen begin to fly, then, about 
two dozen C. B. Masons scratched off in no time! 

"What am I to start on now?” asked Mary as Miss 
Kramer left with the letters. 

"Miss Elliot will see you presently,” the Headworker 
replied. At that, another secretary appeared from Miss 


107 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Elliot’s office, wanting to know if Miss Boots had shown 
up yet. This last arrival from Headquarters conducted 
the postulant to a seat in what was called "the Lantern” 
for some strange reason. It wasn’t a lantern, it was the in¬ 
side of the tower that centered the Ann building, up and 
up for seven storeys—a vast, sunlighted barrel of a room. 
All of ten people were waiting to see Miss Elliot, whose 
office suite was directly off the Lantern. 

Quite different at the Mem where Mrs. Cromwell’s 
offices were on the roof, a sort of penthouse. Up there 
she sat, as if she thought she was God ruling the universe, 
and very few people were allowed to see her in person. 
Apparently, Miss Elliot’s contacts were close, personal; she 
saw no end of tenement people. In all the years of Mary’s 
attendance at the Mem, she had never seen the inside of 
Mrs. Cromwell’s offices until yesterday when she went up 
there to sign her fifty weeks’ contract at twenty a week. 
Somehow, a hunch persisted in the girl’s mind that Mrs. 
Cromwell did not especially enjoy putting her name to the 
contract. As usual, she was politely kind, and ready with 
a short lecture to the effect that it was a great privilege 
to be trained to a profession, and paid a generous salary 
while in training. Other girls, Mrs. Cromwell pointed out, 
had to spend four years in college before they might be 
considered eligible to become volunteer social workers 
without any pay whatever. 

Mary maintained an air of outward calm as she was 
ushered into the anteroom of Miss Elliot’s office, although 
she was fairly snapping and crackling with excitement. 
Through the open door, as she sat and waited, she could see 
the big boss at her desk. The old gal had nice hands, well 
manicured with tinted nails. A bit of make-up too, es- 


108 


A ROOF 


pecially lips and brows. But her brows were not plucked; 
in fact, they were heavy and nearly joined together, a 
dark bar over her large brown eyes. The hair was the 
exact color of smoked mother-of-pearl, set in a turned- 
under wave, not a hair end visible. But nothing could 
make Miss Elliot beautiful,—only very distinguished look¬ 
ing. Her tailleur was a knockout for style, brown and 
red shepherd checks. Miss Elliot was built for tailored 
creations, a very tall woman with flat, square shoulders. 
The blouse under the check was flame colored. Gunmetal 
earrings, like three tiny cannon-balls were wrapped 
around the lobes of her ears. Under all, feet that were 
something to envy, very narrow, with slim, neat ankles. 
Only God knew her age—she did not look a day over forty, 
but she gave you a feeling she might be all of sixty. 

Mary stirred uneasily on her chair, each moment more 
conscious of Miss Elliot’s set-up, a style show in herself. 
What a mistake she had made to get into an out-dated coat- 
suit of blue serge and a pongee blouse! 

"I recall you distinctly,” spoke a broad a-ed voice when 
the new worker was brought into The Presence. "You 
were Anne in 'Outward Bound,’ weren’t you?” 

"Yes,” murmured Mary. 

"I have nothing to say of you as an actress, but I did 
note your smart appearance. I hear you buy your clothes 
at the 'Carry On’ shop and refit them yourself. 

"Yes, Miss Elliot.” 

"Did this get-up, by any chance, come from the 'Carry 
On’?” 

"No, Miss Elliot. When I dressed this morning, I 
thought I’d better look more like a social worker.” 

"This frump regalia, Miss Boots, may be all right at the 



AGAINST THE RAIN 109 

Mem. But here in the Ann district life is warm, rich, 
Latin, Slavic. Our people demand color, form, rites, cere¬ 
mony. When they call on me, they don their best, and 
they expect the same deference in return.” 

Mary’s lips were mute. Her expression bespoke atten¬ 
tion, alert receptability. Suddenly, the woman was pleased, 
in fact, she found herself liking the girl. 

“Are you a stenographer?” she asked. 

“I learned it, Miss Elliot. I remembered the symbols 
perfectly, but I never got to feel at home with them. 
Maybe I’m too cautious by nature; I write shorthand too 
carefully to get the necessary speed.” 

Annie Elliot thought for another full minute—Hector 
had had favorable reports on the girl. She was not a gossip 
and her teachers at the Mem attested to her exactness to 
detail and a non-intellectual but remarkably retentive 
mind. 

Another thoughtful minute, and she decided to take 
Mary out on a case, this morning. Yes, the Stauvac case, 
an opportunity to test the Boots girl’s ability to give an 
intelligent recount of Sophy Stauvac’s progress to Miss 
Sartoni who kept the Annex’s confidential files. 

“Get ready to go out with me, Miss Boots. Maria, bring 
me my things and call a taxi.” 

As she spoke, Miss Elliot rose from her desk. What a 
relief, she felt. Personally, she could not abide note- 
scratching helpers, they got on her nerves, they got on 
the nerves of the subjects of the cases under investigation. 
Yes, she felt the Boots girl had possibilities. 

Miss Maria Sartoni brought in Miss Elliot’s hat, bag, 
and gloves. 

“Come along, Mary, we’re going. I want to see Sophy 



110 


A ROOF 

Stauvac, a girl with a baby. I hear Sophy’s neighbors are 
giving her trouble.” 

So she was Mary already! And Sophy, Mary surmised, 
was an unmarried mother. 

How the people in the street made over Miss Elliot! 
Simply marvellous, her popularity. Under all her crisp, 
business-like manner, she ate it up, her color rising, her 
eyes brightening. When Sophy’s address was reached, the 
women said she had moved to the West Side. Miss Elliot 
gave the women blue blazes, accusing them of cruelty, so 
hard on Sophy she had to pick up and leave her old home. 
They claimed they didn’t, but Mary knew they were 
lying. How could a respectable married woman be nice 
to a girl with a bastard baby? Miss Elliot certainly was a 
queer person, not being able to see it from the right slant. 
Then, into the taxi again and over to the West Side. 

In this other neighborhood, they didn’t know who Miss 
Elliot was. So, of course, the women in the tenement looked 
at her suspiciously, especially when she asked for Sophy 
Stauvac. Finally the girl was located, several doors away 
from the number given at the old address. Here again, 
all the women looked their dire suspicions, whispering to 
one another. When Sophy appeared, Mary saw a big husky 
Polack with a face too young for her years and experience, 
a most innocent looking creature. And how she cried when 
she saw Miss Elliot, how she took on over the cruel treat¬ 
ment at her old address and the still more cruel treatment 
she was getting now! 

"How are you making out for money?” Miss Elliot in¬ 
terrupted, "is that man helping to support his child?” 

"He get married two months ago, Miss Elliot. Widow 
woman get him and somebody tip her off about me. She 


Ill 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

come here and she raise hell on me. Oh, such a mad she 
got on me, Miss Elliot! She tell all the women in the house 
that I was tart, and chase her husband. You ought hear 
what she say to me, Miss Elliot. She say, if I take another 
cent from her husband, she cut the heart out of me,” 

"You’re a big, strong girl, Sophy, you should be able to 
defend yourself.” 

"You ain’t seen her, Miss Elliot, she make two of me.” 

Mary looked about the room, the kitchen of a ground 
floor rear flat. It was spick and span, but very crowded 
by a cot-bed and a child’s crib. Sophy was washing diapers, 
just outside the door to the backyard. The baby, too, was 
outside in its pram, getting fresh air and sunshine. A cute 
kid, near a year old, with blue eyes and gold hair. The 
women of the house were bunching up to the back of the 
yard, whispering together. They looked daggers towards 
the kitchen. Mary understood them perfectly, like as 
not they suspected Miss Elliot was a swell madam getting 
girls for her business. 

"How do you plan to make out, Sophy?” asked Miss 
Elliot next. 

"Oh, I kin git by on what I git; Home Relief, and I 
got four rooms here and I got my three other rooms rent 
already, Miss Elliot. But the married women, they ride 
my roomers, they call them tarts.” 

"What sort of roomers have you, Sophy?” 

"Tarts, Miss Elliot. But they call-girls, they got tele¬ 
phone, they don’t do no business here, no men around, 
never.” 

"How’d you come to get these girls in the first place?” 

"You remember Annie Yurzak, she have baby three 
years ago now?” 


112 


A ROOF 


“Yes, I remember Annie. What’s happened to her?” 

“You remember, Miss Elliot, how the married women 
ride Annie, after she have baby?” 

“I certainly do.” 

“When I come live here, Miss Elliot, one day, I see Annie 
in drug-store, and I speak to her and she say, 'Why so 
friendly, I thought you lay off knowing me, when you see 
me?’ Then, I say to her, 'Sure, I didn’t speak to you, my 
mother tell me I can’t, and . . .’ ” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Miss Elliot, “I get the picture. 
You and Annie became friends again, she was your first 
roomer and brought you the other girls.” 

“Oh, no, Miss Elliot, Annie don’t live in no dump like 
this—Annie swell now. But she send me other girls. She 
is madam for big guy who got chain of call-houses, very 
big guy, Miss Elliot.” 

“Yes, and Annie will sell you the madam idea, and you’ll 
find yourself brothel-keeper for this very big guy one of 
these days.” 

“Oh, no, not me, Miss Elliot—I am good Cat’lic—not in 
ten thousand years, never for me, the tart idea, not for 
myself, never!” 

A hard-faced girl, her red hair in metal curlers, her 
emaciated body in a trim cotton housedress, came into 
the kitchen, a drip-pot in one hand, a coffee canister in 
the other. “Mind, Mrs. Stauvac,” she asked, “if I get us 
girls our coffee on your stove this morning?” 

"O K, sure, that’s all right. Miss Burton, meet Miss 
Elliot, a good friend for you, if, sometime, you want 
change your ideas.” 

Mary felt sick, suddenly weak, cold behind the ears, 
wobbly in the knees. 


113 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"No, not for the present,” Miss Burton told Sophy; 
“but pleased to meet you, just the same, Miss Elliot. 
Warm weather for this time of year. Looks like we 
might get rain, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes, it is getting cloudy. How do you do, Miss 
Burton?” 

And Miss Elliot shook hands with the low, vile creature! 

A yelp from the baby outside the door, a shriek from 
Sophy—and she was chasing a kid away from the pram, 
trying to hit the kid, screaming it had hurt her baby. 
The usual backyard cat-fight followed, all the women 
lined up against Sophy. 

Miss Burton went outdoors and into the squabble. 

“How do you get that way,” she shouted at the women; 
“who do you think you are, that you can ride Mrs. Stauvac 
like you do?” 

“And how did Miss Stauvac get that way?” mocked a 
woman, pointing to the kid in the pram. 

“The same little frolic that got you that way,” said 
Miss Burton, pointing to the woman’s stomach which 
looked like she might have twins in another minute. 

“Ve haff rinks on our fing-ers,” yelled another woman, 
also in the family way. “You see it, you tart, the rink 
on my fing-er?” 

They said lots of things like that, all the women— 
that their kids weren’t bastards, that their men were their 
husbands. 

Miss Burton said plenty, too; that they better have 
husbands, that no man would touch them if he didn’t 
have to. “If I couldn’t rate a better man than any of 
you,” she told them, “I’m glad I’m a tart and proud of it.” 

"You’re scabs,” one of the women yelled back; “tarts, 


114 


A ROOF 


scab-women, marriage-breakers!” She tapped her wedding 
ring. "Here’s my union card to show I keep my bed in a 
closed shop, and don’t scab it for any man.” 

Mary felt Miss Elliot did not understand the situation 
in the least. How could she understand, wasn’t she a high- 
hat, with no idea of what it is to be industrial-minded? 
The women were right. Marriage was like labor and must 
be run on strictly closed shop principles. Men were like 
capitalists, there had to be a fixed schedule held against 
them, the marriage-schedule. But Miss Elliot, a capitalist 
herself, couldn’t grasp the idea. All she had to remark 
was, "Get that girl’s coffee dripped for her, Mary. I want 
to get her out of here and have a private talk with Sophy.” 

"Sophy, haven’t you a married sister, considerably older 
than yourself, out West somewhere?” asked Miss Elliot 
when Miss Burton had left the kitchen. 

"Sure, Miss Elliot, I got sister out West, widow woman 
now. Her husband die on her. He was sick three months; 
first, he get better, and then, he . . 

"Never mind the man’s illness, what I want to know is 
how your sister was left—is she in comfortable circum¬ 
stances?” 

"O K, Miss Elliot, her man leave her jake when he die— 
apple trees, house, barn, three cows and four hundred 
chickens, and twenty acres land. She want me come, she 
want me live with her.” 

"Why don’t you go?” 

"But the money to get there, Miss Elliot?” 

"How far is it?” 

"Near Seattle, Washington.” 

"Has your sister children?” 


115 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"She have two but they die on her. First her girl get 
sick . . . and . . 

"Never mind about that, but tell me, does your sister 
know about your baby?” 

"Yes, but she don’t mind that, now that I am good 
Cat’lie again and I go straight. She say for me to come 
with the kid and say I am widow woman.” 

"Very well, Sophy. Get rid of your things here, sell 
them for whatever you can get. And tell your business to 
nobody. When you’re ready to go, call me up at the Ann. 
I’ll see to your traveling expenses and give you fifty dollars 
over, so you won’t arrive in Seattle with an empty pocket.” 

"But I should have a ring on my finger.” 

"By all means,” said Miss Elliot, handing Sophy a ten 
dollar bill, "buy a gold one, Sophy, today, and see that it 
doesn’t look new when you wear it in Seattle.” 

Sophy tried to kiss Miss Elliot’s hands, tried to get down 
on her knees to thank her, crying and blubbering. 

"Snap out of it,” Miss Elliot said sharply, "cut it out, 
Sophy. Go to Seattle, raise chickens and apples, keep 
straight, be a good Catholic—that’s all the thanks I want, 
the satisfaction of feeling I’m not going to be thrown 
down. You won’t throw me down, Sophy, you will go 
straight, won’t you?” 

And this was social work at the Ann, thought Mary! 
My God, who would have guessed it was so cock-eyed? 


Chapter Nine 


The Menchinini family had no end of boys, all juvenile 
delinquents. At the Ann, workers never spoke of rats or 
little punks —they called them juvenile delinquents, the 
proper term. For all this delinquency of the Menchinini 
boys, the father was to blame—one of those boneheaded 
Wops who couldn’t see he was raising kids in New York, 
not in Sicily. Otherwise, he wasn’t so bad, a hard-working 
man with his own cobbler shop. But business success only 
lifted his ego, convinced him he was a hell of a guy, dead 
right about everything, his family in particular. Mr. 
Menchinini’s brother Tony had a daughter, Angelina. 
Angelina married a punk at sixteen, a South American, a 
very bad egg, her own reputation none too good at the time, 
either. Nor had it improved any since then—at present, 
Angelina was in New York, a high-class kept woman, living 
in grand style in West Seventy-second Street. Mr. Men¬ 
chinini took his niece’s shameful life very much to heart, 
determined to keep his own girls from taking the same trail. 


116 



117 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

But, naturally dumb, he went about it in a dumb way, no 
other notion in his head but to get all his girls married be¬ 
fore they were sixteen and ruined. Some months back, 
his oldest girl, Cetta, was fifteen and a half years old, and 
what did the lunkhead father do but import a young 
cousin from Sicily, his idea of a husband for Cetta. No 
faith left in local Wops, Mr. Menchinini wanted this simp, 
Luigi, for his son-in-law. It just wasn’t in the old Wop 
to see sense and facts. All around him, lots of young 
Italians were going straight, taking every advantage the 
Ann gave them for wholesome recreation and profitable 
self-improvement. 

Cetta was smart, in second year Commercial High— 
pretty, too,—and Luigi just another greasy Wop to her. 
She wanted to finish High, to get a job, and not marry 
until she was at least twenty. Nothing of the nymph 
about her, not a bit sexy. But that didn’t spell a thing 
to the father, his mind already fixed to get her married 
before she was ruined. His old mother lived with him, 
Nana , they called her, Wop for grandma. Between the 
man and old Nana, Mrs. Menchinini didn’t have a word 
to say in her own home. Nana said she had a child at her 
skirt, another at her breast, and one in her belly by the 
time she was Cetta’s age. That sure got Cetta’s goat. She 
couldn’t see herself at sixteen and settling down to have 
babies like a cat has kittens. Luigi was a sap, shoeshining 
for Mr. Menchinini, all he’d ever be equal to. But low 
earning capacity never holds a foreign-born Wop back 
from wanting a big family; they are that way, thinking a 
man isn’t the genuine article unless his wife is always 
having babies. 

When the father took Cetta out of Commercial High 


118 


A ROOF 


to get her married, there was no way to stop him, no law 
to keep a smart kid in school. If Cetta had been dumb 
and hadn’t finished the eighth grade, the law would have 
protected her. School laws are all cock-eyed, forcing edu¬ 
cation on the kids who can’t take it and leaving smart kids 
at the mercy of fathers like Mr. Menchinini. 

To throw a scare into Luigi and make him balk at 
marrying her, Cetta started out to make the boob think 
she was a fast girl. That is a dangerous game to play, and 
she was not equal to it. Meanwhile, Cetta had put up 
a big show. She ran about with District punks, she danced 
at Paradise Hours, that hell-hole of a waterfront night¬ 
club owned by Mr. Diglio, the big politician. But the 
Mayor had his eye on Mr. Diglio, and, one night, Paradise 
Hours was raided, and Cetta was with the bunch that got 
pinched. The desk sergeant at the precinct turned her 
over to the S.P.C.C., and the S.P.C.C. lady doctor listed 
Cetta as a juvenile sex offender infected with a social 
disease. The poor thing had over-played her hand, not able 
to carry her liquor. So, being infectious, Cetta was an 
isolation case until cured. Luigi got plastered on the head 
of it. The dirty skunk went about the District, telling 
everybody that his cousin was a put ana, Wop for tart. 
The father beat Luigi up something fierce; he was still in 
Bellevue, recovering from his injuries. Mr. Menchinini 
got off with only a ten dollar fine because it was his 
daughter’s honor. But Cetta didn’t have any honor left, 
all the District now knowing she was ruined and diseased. 
In his dumb way, the old Wop felt it was up to him to 
make a gesture, showing his disapproval in a big way, so 
he demanded the girl’s committal to the reformatory, 
claiming she was a menace to her younger sisters’ morals. 


119 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

This morning the case came up. Miss Elliot was in 
court to keep the girl out of the reformatory and take 
the parole on her own shoulders. Justice Emmet was to 
decide the case. He was a younger man, a very under¬ 
standing person. But Justice Emmet had been called 
away to a big conference in Washington and Justice 
Manning, an old fogey, sat on the case. To make things 
worse, the boob fossil had a fierce cold and was in a ter¬ 
rible grouch, for all the world as if he had a row with his 
wife at the breakfast table. Whatever it was, he took it 
out on Cetta, committing her to the reformatory. 

The yell Mrs. Menchinini let out of her when she 
realized what had happened! Perfectly cuckoo, she ran 
from the Court House and threw herself in front of the 
Twenty-third Street trolley. A miracle, how the motorman 
stopped his car at full speed. The poor thing wasn’t much 
hurt, only a few scratches which Miss Elliot dressed with 
iodine. Then, calling a taxi, she sent Mary home with the 
woman. She was to use her head, Miss Elliot said, to keep 
Mrs. Menchinini from killing herself—without calling in 
the police, who would arrest her for attempted suicide. 
But Miss Elliot didn’t think there was any real danger 
of that, once Mrs. Menchinini was home with her other 
children. 

Such a frightful day it was! Poor Mrs. Menchinini, the 
heart torn out of her! How she kept it up, screaming that 
Cetta was a good girl. She’d believe nothing brought up 
against her, lies, all lies about Cetta. She spoke good Eng¬ 
lish, coming to America when she was quite young, much 
more Americanized than Mr. Menchinini, a man grown 
when he came to this country. On getting home, the first 
thing she did was to run Nana out of the house with a 


120 


A ROOF 


long butcher knife. Then she went into the parlor and 
took her husband’s big crayon portrait off the wall, broke 
the frame, slashed the picture to tatters. Meanwhile, Nana 
went to the shop, telling the son how the wife did her. He 
came back with the old woman, but only for a few 
moments. Hollering, screaming, swinging the knife like 
a whirlwind, Mrs. Menchinini made for the two of them. 
How they made tracks was a caution, like greased light¬ 
ning. 

"You know, Miss Boots, Menchinini gotta the niece, 
Angelina?” she asked then. 

"Yes,” Mary answered. 

"You know Angelina a very, very swell put ana?” 

"Yes, I’ve heard so.” 

"Angelina good a girl, very good a girl. But she marry 
the punk, Manny de Costa, when Menchinini’s brother 
Tony try for make Angelina marry a Wop like Luigi. De 
Costa, very bad a actor; Angentino guy him; and, pretty 
soon, de Costa ship Angelina to cat-house in South Amer¬ 
ica. He marry other Wop girls and send them to South 
America. But Angelina won’t stay no long a time in no 
cat-house. A swell guy see her, Cuban, and he take An¬ 
gelina to Havana. But not to no cat-house, this a time; 
but he have her in swell a style, his lady. For three year, 
Angelina been lady in Havana, and, then, he git ’nother 
girl, French girl, this a time. Angelina come to New York, 
Mrs. de Costa, very swell, a Cuban widow lady; and pretty 
soon, she git ’nother man, swell a millionaire gentleman. 
Angelina hate her father, she hate Nana, and Menchinini, 
her uncle. But Angelina like me very, very much.” 

"How do you know she likes you? Do you ever see 
her, Mrs. Menchinini?” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 


121 


"Once a time, every year, her saint’s day, Angelina 
send her car for me. But not to District, I meet Angelina 
in her car at Penn Station. We have long talk and good 
cry together, riding in Angelina’s car. After we have cry 
and have talk, Angelina give me twenty dollar, always the 
twenty dollar; and I come home and Menchinini he don’t 
know nothing about it. With five dollar I buy many, so 
many candle for Angelina!” 

"But can’t she buy her own candles, Mrs. Menchinini?” 

"No, not this candle, this a candle I burn to the holy 
Rita, saint of the impossible, for Angelina. Some a time, 
Saint Rita put a kibosh on sin business. No, she won’t a let 
Angelina die in sin. The other fifteen dollar get three a 
nice dress for Cetta, and Menchinini never know it.” 

At that, the poor thing wanted Mary to go to Mrs. 
de Costa and get a hundred dollars for a lawyer to keep 
Cetta out of the reformatory. 

"Don’t you think you should go yourself? Being her 
aunt, you’d have more weight with her than a stranger.” 

"No, no,” Mrs. Menchinini said. The high-hat who kept 
Angelina mustn’t see any Wops around. Angelina didn’t 
want any beans spilled on her—she was a swell widow from 
Havana. 

"You stay here a minute,” said Mary finally. "I’ll run 
down to the drug store and phone Miss Elliot. I can’t do 
anything till I have her advice first.” 

Miss Kramer answered the call. Of all bad luck, Miss 
Elliot had just started for the Newark airport on receiving 
a long distance call that her ninety-year-old grandmother 
was dying in Boston! 

"Then, please, Miss Kramer, can I speak with Mrs. 
Mason?” 


122 


A ROOF 


"Mrs. Mason has gone with Miss Elliot. You see, Miss 
Elliot’s grandmother is Mrs. Mason’s great-grandmother.” 

For God’s sake, they were cousins! Who’d have thought 
it? 

"Then, Miss Kramer, can I speak to Mr. Morrissey?” 

"Mr. Morrissey has been called to an important welfare 
conference in Washington,” and Miss Kramer hung up. 

When Mrs. Menchinini knew Mary could do nothing for 
her, she took on something terrible, trying to cut her 
wrists with the butcher knife. The two little girls, Tessie 
and Rosa, helped Mary get the weapon away from her. 
It was hysterics again, almost as bad as the attack in the 
Children’s Court. While Mary was in the bathroom, look¬ 
ing for aromatic spirits of ammonia, the kids let out a 
terrible yell, calling to her. What a sight met her eyes— 
with a piece of clothesline, tied to the kitchen transom, 
Mrs. Menchinini was at suicide again, trying to hang her¬ 
self, this time! Frightful beyond words, such a heavy 
woman, all of two hundred pounds—the two kids and 
Mary holding her up in the narrow doorway so her weight 
would not pull on the rope and choke her! They hollered 
for help, yelling their heads off. But no use—nobody came. 
With the noise of the El trains, past the windows, and the 
neighbors so accustomed to Menchinini family rows, the 
alarm was, most probably, nothing out of the ordinary. 
No use, either, in putting a chair under Mrs. Menchinini’s 
feet to support her. She was sure to kick the chair off, 
every time. 

At last, her own strength failing, Mary bargained with 
the woman, swearing a solemn oath to go, right away, and 
get the money from Mrs. de Costa. Mrs. Menchinini be¬ 
came passive and directed the placing of the chair. 


123 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

The exterior of the apartment house in West Seventy- 
second Street was impressive. Mary was impressed, deeply. 
But, as God knew, her motives were pure, her mind free 
of the least curiosity to see if the movies were correct in 
their pictures of how high-hats kept their mistresses. No, 
it was not even in her thoughts, her mind above such low¬ 
ness. Then, too, she only went to see such picture shows 
on account of the lesson in them, always showing how the 
woman paid in the end, her sin and luxury bringing her 
no true happiness. Seeing Angelina ought to be a won¬ 
derful lesson, studying the woman’s face and seeing it was 
only a mask, covering a suffering soul. 

A man in uniform at the door, another in the foyer, still 
another in front of the elevators. But no seeing the 
woman until a caller was announced first. The style the 
bitches were kept in, the airs of them! The swank of this 
set-up! Mrs. de Costa would have to pay in the end, but, 
meanwhile, some old letch was meeting the expenses and 
they must be plenty. 

Mary, a bit doubtful as to what the announcement in¬ 
volved, found the nearest drug store and looked in the 
telephone directory—there was a Mrs. Ange de Costa with 
the same number as the big apartment house. That must 
be her— no, she . A woman’s voice answered at the other 
end of the wire. 

"I’m Miss Boots,” Mary told her, "a Goodrich Memorial 
social worker from the Annex. One of our case families, 
the Menchininis, are in trouble. Mrs. Menchinini made me 
promise to see you about it. You needn’t be leery of seeing 
me. I know everything, but I’ll keep it strictly confidential 
between you and me. Social workers are that way, we keep 
everything absolutely confidential.” 


124 


A ROOF 


"When do you want to see me, Miss Boots?” 

"I’ve got to see you now, immediately, it’s a matter of 
life and death. If I don’t get you at once, Mrs. Menchinini 
is going to commit suicide, she has tried it three times 
today already.” 

"Very well, how soon will you come?” 

"In a few minutes, I’m phoning from the druggist’s.” 

A colored maid opened the apartment door. As Mary 
entered the inner hall, she saw two gentlemen through a 
wide archway. One wasn’t bad and appeared about forty. 
The other was bald, but his back was turned, his face not 
visible. For Mrs. de Costa’s sake, Mary hoped the younger 
and taller gentleman was the one implicated. The maid 
led on quickly to a small room at the end of the foyer. 
There stood the woman waiting, a brunette knock-out in 
dove-gray crepe, a high neck, long sleeves. A stunner of 
a gown, closed in the back, buttons from collar to hem of 
the trailing skirt. Mrs. de Costa did not look like a mistress, 
but she was glamorous, radiant with glamour. She made 
you think of the fruit in the gift baskets in Park & Til- 
ford’s windows, the dark orchids in a Fifth Avenue 
florist’s. She seemed made for nothing else but to knock 
the ego out of blondes and give redheads inferiority com¬ 
plexes. The heavy lusciousness of her, topping it off with 
contralto voice, feminine but deeply musical. 

But the room wasn’t glamorous, it looked more like 
an office, with two big iron safes in it. She probably had 
her jewels in one safe and her love-letters in the other. 
They always keep their love-letters to use, later on, when 
the man tries to ditch them. Mary had read many such 
letters; breach of promise cases are good reading, especially 
in the tabloids. As they talked in the office, if it were an 


125 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

office, the gentleman who wasn’t bald appeared and asked 
Mrs. de Costa for the big lens. He said Jamie and he 
wanted to look a stamp over. He hung around much 
longer than necessary. Mary could feel his eyes on her, 
never off her for an instant. They were Reggie and Ange 
to each other. Putting two and two together, the old bird 
was James; the younger one, Reginald. But which was 
the man, the younger or the other? And what were the 
last names? Finally, Reggie left with the lens, nothing 
more revealed. 

Nothing could have been more sympathetic than Ange, 
as they called her, giving the name a French twist. She 
listened to all details and then took out her checkbook. 
But Mary explained that Mrs. Menchinini said not to get the 
money in check form because it was hard to cash a check 
without the District’s knowing all about it. 

"Yes, that’s much better, Miss Boots; and here are forty 
dollars. Come back tomorrow forenoon, and I will have 
the other sixty ready for you.” 

The colored maid showed the caller out, a disappointed 
caller, no idea of what man was which, no last names, 
hardly a glimpse of what the apartment was like. Down 
the elevator to further disappointment—raining cats and 
dogs, coming down in buckets! The doorman whistled a 
taxi. A taxi for Mary! For heaven’s sake—and only a 
nickel in her handbag! What did the doorman think she 
was, another kept woman with money to burn? The 
snootiness of them that hop bells for sin and luxury—how 
the doorman looked down his nose at Mary Boots who 
couldn’t afford a taxi! But she took an unwelcome seat 
in the foyer to wait for a let-up in the downpour. Then, 
Reggie appeared and asked if his car had come yet. 


126 A ROOF 

"No, not yet, Mr. Richards,” said the doorman in a lick¬ 
spittle manner. 

"Is Mr. Faunce’s car outside?” 

"It was, Mr. Richards, but Mr. Faunce sent word to his 
driver to take it to the garage and wait until further 
orders.” The kowtowing of the creature as Mr. Richards 
handed him a tip in paper money and told him to keep 
an eye out for his car. And how he looked at her when 
she said she couldn’t afford to take the taxi he had whistled 
to the curb! But some choice gleaning, the man who kept 
Angelina was Mr. James Faunce and Mr. Faunce had a 
friend, Mr. Reginald Richards, a friend who was perfectly 
willing to keep such vile company! 

Mr. Richards turned, and turning, saw Mary at the 
farther end of the foyer. He made for her, all smiles, 
to take the chair beside hers. "Oh, you’re Miss Boots,” he 
said, "and Mrs. de Costa tells me you are one of these clever 
young business women, very successful in insurance.” 

So, they had been talking about her, upstairs, after she 
left the apartment! So, Mr. Richards was interested! But 
Angelina, to cover all tracks to Wop relations and their 
Wop troubles, had her little alibi ready. Miss Boots was 
an insurance agent, making a business call, was she? 

Then, the doorman announced the car’s arrival. Mr. 
Richards asked to drop Mary where she was going. A free 
ride was a free ride—she’s have Mr. Richards let her out 
at Gimbel’s, saying she had to do some shopping. From 
the store, to the El and South Ferry—a Second Avenue 
train next, and thank God, the Menchininis lived a door 
from the El station—and all for a nickel! 

In Mr. Richard’s car, driven by a Jap chauffeur, he 
spoke again about insurance. Mary knew a little on the 



127 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

subject, things she had heard Mrs. Lantey say. Mrs. Lantey 
did a bit of policy hustling for Sid Silverstein, a big-shot 
in the insurance business. It paid her well in commission— 
when she could get it, which wasn’t so very often. 

"Yes,” said Mary, "I’m doing nicely at insurance.” 

"What’s your line?” 

"Life and tontines,” she remembered terms heard from 
Mrs. Lantey, adding, "indemnities and disabilities, too.” 

"How remarkable, Miss Boots! You must write a policy 
for me!” 

Oh, God, what a tangled web we weave, when first we 
start out to deceive! Was there ever a truer saying? 

"That’s lovely of you, Mr. Richards. But I don’t write 
policies, I just get them for a gentleman friend who’s in 
the business and he gives me a percentage of the commis- 

• yy 

sion. 

"We’ll get together on that, very soon. Now, let me 
see—how about next Monday evening? We’ll dine to¬ 
gether, and talk insurance?” 

What luck, a way out! "That will be nice,” Mary 
hedged, with no intention of keeping any date with Mr. 
Richards. "I’ll be busy, all day, but could you meet me 
in Grand Central, at the information desk, in the evening?” 

How she was laughing up her sleeve, a high-hat waiting 
in Grand Central for a Miss Boots who would never ap¬ 
pear! And what he needed, so sure of himself, the letch! 
The nerve of him, taking a pair of nose-glasses, using it as a 
lens, watching her cheeks through it! Then, his flow of 
compliments about her delicate skin, its exquisite texture! 
Coloring came next, crazy talking, him saying she shaded 
blue and copper. Think of that—blue and copper in a 
body’s skin—who ever heard of such haywire hooey! 



128 


A ROOF 


Now, it got just too raw, Mr. Richards wanting to span 
her ankles, to see how small they really were. A pass, all 
right; the old rooster was up to something—no mistake 
about him now! 

"Mr. Richards/ 5 Mary said in her most prim voice, 
"please, Mr. Richards, remember you are a gentleman and 
I am a lady—and conduct yourself accordingly. Besides, 
here’s Gimbel’s now, please let me out. I’m in a hurry, and 
it near closing time for stores, and I got a lot of shopping 
to do.” 

He subsided, but kept the date in mind. "Remember,” 
he said as the Jap opened the car door, "don’t forget, Miss 
Boots—next Monday, the information desk, Grand Cen¬ 
tral, seven-thirty.” 

"Certainly, Mr. Richards, and thanks for the lift. I’ll 
be on hand, prompt to the minute.” 

Her eye, she would be there! And just what he de¬ 
served, waiting and waiting for a good turn-down in the 
end and learning he wasn’t so hot to a lady insurance agent, 
that she wouldn’t eat his old dinner, not even to get a 
policy and commission out of him! 

Little Tessie and Rosa met Mary at the door to the 
Menchinini flat. Their mamma was asleep on the sofa in 
the parlor, they said; and Nana had made her appearance, 
about a half hour ago. But the mother ran the old woman 
off, this time throwing her clothes after her, dumping them 
into the street from the front window. The kids said 
Nana gathered up her things and went to Uncle Tony in 
Brooklyn. 

The parlor was a worse mess than ever. The framed 
marriage certificate that had hung on the wall was now 


129 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

a mass of tatters, broken frame, and smashed glass laid on 
top of Mr. Menchinini’s portrait. Over this Mrs. Men- 
chinini had emptied the cat’s pan of used sawdust, and 
put her wedding ring on top of the filthy heap. 

Mary gave Tessie the forty dollars, and told the kid to 
tell her mother that the rest would be available tomorrow 
forenoon. 

What relief it was to go home, to undress, and clean her 
face, neck and hands with sweet butter. Then a bath— 
and Lance to think about. Was Lance thinking of her, 
this very minute? Was he thinking of her neck? He must 
love her neck—hadn’t he kissed it? How lovely it was, 
everybody noticed her neck, even Stanley who always 
claimed a girl’s intellect was more important than her 
looks. 

After Mamma brought Mary a light supper, Mary lay 
down, but before that, she took one last, long look at her¬ 
self in the mirror. Her shoulders, her arms, were so per¬ 
fect any man would want to kiss them. And now to pull 
down the shades, sink on the bed, and think of Lance in 
the quiet of her own little room. Such pleasant thoughts 
to think—Saturday coming, Saturday and Lance. To 
know you are in love and beautiful and have it in you 
to get the one you love. How delicious to lie folded up in 
hopeful thoughts, and, from hopes, to see yourself living 
in the happy future. Lance was wealthy. His wife could 
have everything—and soft, lacy nightgowns. How sweet 
of our dear Lord to have ordained marriage, a holy sacra¬ 
ment and it no sin to lie in your husband’s arms and let 
him do what he liked with you. Of course it wasn’t sin¬ 
ful to think about such things when a girl thought about 
them as happening to herself in marriage. That was love 


130 A ROOF 

and God wanted it that way—didn’t he say that the hus¬ 
band and wife should be one in the same flesh? 

The next morning, when Mary was admitted to Mrs. de 
Costa’s apartment, the maid said Madame was in the study 
—and to the study Mary was steered in a hurry,—down 
the hall with hardly a glimpse into the bedroom. But 
enough of a glimpse to see there was only one bed and 
the bed was a single. Angelina wasn’t so dumb, she had 
found a way to manage her problem and get out of sleep¬ 
ing the whole night with Mr. Faunce. Think of a bald man 
on the next pillow! But, of course, Mary wasn’t thinking 
of it—as she told herself, her mind never stooped to such 
low levels. 

"Good morning, Miss Boots! The money has not come 
yet, but it will. Please wait.” 

"Good morning, Mrs. de Costa.” Mary sat down watch¬ 
ing the woman seated at a table, about a dozen stamps be¬ 
fore her which she was examining with a big lens, the one 
Mr. Richards had asked for yesterday. 

"Oh, you collect stamps, do you, Mrs. de Costa? I tried 
it once when I was a kid,” Mary said by way of opening 
conversation. 

Angelina sighed. "Yes, it is childish,” she murmured. 
Then she placed each stamp in a different envelope and 
put them all back in one of the iron safes, carefully lock¬ 
ing them in. 

"Are they that valuable?” asked Mary. 

"Very valuable, Miss Boots, in my friend’s estimation.” 

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. de Costa, I didn’t mean to ask 
any private questions.” 

"Why not, if you want to ask them?” 


131 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Goodness, no, I wouldn’t think of such a thing.” 

"But women like you always want to ask questions 
when they see women like me.” 

"Oh, no, Mrs. de Costa, I’m not thinking of you as any 
special kind of a person!” 

"Certainly you are; it is in your mind, every moment.” 

"I am sure you are mistaken.” 

"And my Aunt Lotta will ask you many, many ques¬ 
tions.” 

"I am sure she won’t.” 

"That will be very strange, then. She always asks me 
questions.” 

"Then, Mrs. de Costa, if you won’t mind telling, why 
do you collect stamps, when you don’t seem to care for 
them?” 

"My friend’s present hobby. And me? I know a man 
always has something that means more to him than the 
woman and it is for the woman to be so much of that 
something that the man thinks of them together.” 

"So you go in for stamps in a big way?” 

"Oh, I have gone in for many things in a big way! 
Until two years ago, it was glass, old glass. I liked the 
glass, it had more interest to me.” 

"Why did your friend give it up, then?” 

"He tired of it, and I moved on to the next hobby.” 

Then she asked about Aunt Lotta, her health, different 
things about Cetta and the other children. But what 
Mrs. de Costa really did enjoy was the running off of 
Nana. She laughed herself into tears over it. In tearful 
state now, she wanted to know if Aunt Lotta wasn’t very 
unhappy over the life her niece was leading. 

"But she prays for you all the time, Mrs. de Costa, and 


132 A ROOF 

spends five dollars a year on candles to Saint Rita for the 
good of your soul.” 

"The holy Rita, saint of the impossible,” breathed An¬ 
gelina, crossing herself piously. The poor thing, how piti¬ 
ful, her with a religious nature and forced into a life of 
sin! 

"But not the impossible,” she added, the next minute. 
"Tell my Aunt Lotta I am very frugal, I save. I know I 
will not always be the beautiful Ange de Costa—five, ten, 
maybe fifteen years—who knows? Even, if it is only 
five years, I will not be in the gutter, not me! Tell Aunt 
Lotta, maybe, some day, fifteen years from now, I will 
come for her and we will live in a lovely little house and 
garden in Palermo, and be two great saints, her and me 
together.” She laughed, a weeping laugh, full of tears. 

"Or,” Angelina began again, "you tell my Aunt Lotta, 
some day, soon maybe, I will come to her to tell I am 
married. I will kiss her good-bye, give her a thousand dol¬ 
lars, and go away to California, the wife of my friend.” 
She paused. "Oh, please do not look so surprised, Miss 
Boots! You don’t understand, but I mean it—I can get 
married! Tell Aunt Lotta she doesn’t know New York, 
my New York. Tell Aunt Lotta, many bad women 
marry, and very good marriages too. Many men do not 
want to marry the good woman.” 

For God’s sake, Mary breathed to herself, so this was 
New York’s wealthy men and them marrying up the 
bitches! Those women knew something; they had some 
dark, tricky secrets they kept to themselves; things no 
good woman was ever let know about. 

"Say, now, Mrs. de Costa, how does it happen?” 

Mary had the idea in her head, but no words to outfit 
the idea itself. 


133 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"What happen?” Angelina questioned. 

"I mean your getting married, Mrs. de Costa?” The 
sentence sounded inadequate to Mary’s own ears. "I mean, 
Mrs. de Costa, how do you explain it, that you can make 
a better marriage now than you could when you were a 
young girl?” 

"Is there anything, Miss Boots, that you know very well, 
that you have given study, given a long time to?” 

"Yes, the piano, years and years at it, the best teachers 
and constant practice.” 

"Could you make me a pianist, Miss Boots, in a few 
words, a short explanation?” 

"No, I couldn’t, but the piano is different.” 

"I am as helpless with you as you with me, and it is 
not different.” 

Of course, the vile creature would keep her viler secrets 
and mysteries to herself, and more fool Mary for thinking 
to ask her! No wonder Mary never got any of the wealthy 
fellows who saw her at the Mem and the Chapel. She 
knew none of the tricks. But, if she had been a hussy 
instead, she’d be riding around the world in her private 
steam yacht. Great God, think of Mr. Faunce marrying 
Angelina, an insult to every pure girl and good woman in 
New York City! 

Thank God for the messenger, arriving with the money, 
to get out of this sinful atmosphere, shaking the dust of 
whore and whoremonger from her feet forever! The dirty 
slut, all Mary could do, shaking hands with her at parting! 

In the parlor of his flat, Mr. Menchinini stood, a changed 
man, cleaning Mrs. Menchinini’s wedding ring with a wad 
of newspaper. He couldn’t say a word to Mary, he was 
that broken, the cock-of-the-walk all knocked out of him. 


A ROOF 


134 

Grind, rasp, grind—such a queer sound from the 
kitchen! 

"What’s the noise?” asked Mary. 

"Mamma,” said Tessie, "sharpening the knife some 
more.” 

"She kept it up, all night, Miss Boots,” put in Rosa; 
"she’s got the whetstone Papa has for his leather-cutters.” 

Mr. Menchinini’s voice was so different, when he asked 
the kids to get him a cup of coffee, almost humble to them. 

Mary followed the girls into the kitchen where the 
woman sat, working away at the knife. She had accom¬ 
plished wonders with it, making it a razor-edged sword, 
its point like a needle. 

Mary passed over the sixty dollars. With the money 
in her hand, the woman stood up. "You see me now, Miss 
Boots,” she said, "and you don’t see no more a Wop woman. 
Up to this a time, I was a belly to make the kids for Men- 
chinini. By this a time, all the time now, I am boss of this 
a family and Menchinini he know it.” She put the knife 
in a leather sheath and stuck it down under her blouse. 
As she had no waist, it seemed to set quite comfortably 
there, hardly showing against her soft fat body. 

"Now, Miss Boots, we get the lawyer for Cetta.” 

"There’s Mr. Stella,” Tessie cut in; "he’s a swell lawyer. 
All the Stella kids wear silk stockings.” 

"Not Stella,” snapped Mrs. Menchinini; "I have no 
Wop lawyer for double-cross me to Menchinini. I get me 
Jew man for lawyer, smart a guy.” 

"There’s Mr. Silverstein,” Mary suggested, "Sammy Sil- 
verstein. Everybody knows of Sammy, they call him the 
'poor man’s lawyer.’ ” 

But Sammy, she might have added, wasn’t so poor him- 


135 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

self. In fact Sammy was quite wealthy now, the fees he 
got, and what he could do with a good damage suit against 
a rich corporation was nobody’s business. He was very 
smart, but not at all refined, for which he wasn’t to blame. 
He was all of thirty when the Mem was started in the 
Neighborhood, too late in life for Mr. Silverstein to take 
the advantages the Mem offered. But no success could 
give him the swell-head, nor any of the Silversteins. When 
they got up in the world, they went right on, living in 
the Neighborhood, the Grand Concourse never attracted 
them like it had the Altbergs and the Holtsheimers after 
they got wealthy. 

As Mr. Silverstein’s office was in Nassau Street, Mrs. 
Menchinini decided to dress up to see him. However, she 
insisted that Mary go with her. 

"Papa will never get over what Mamma did to the wed¬ 
ding ring, the insult to him,” said Tessie as the mother 
left the kitchen. 

"Do you think your mother will try to get a divorce? 
asked Mary. 

"No,” Tessie seemed positive on that point, "Wops don’t 
get divorced. Besides, Papa loves Mamma.” 

"You couldn’t believe it, Miss Boots,” put in little Rosa, 
"how Papa broke down, when he came home this morn¬ 
ing, and saw how Mamma done her ring. He didn’t mind 
his picture and the certificate, no, not like the ring. The 
ring was blessed, what he married Mamma in the church 
with.” 

"Papa cried and cried, you could hear him bellering all 
over the flat,” Tessie added; "and Mamma paying no at¬ 
tention, just keeping on, sharpening the knife.” 

With the death-ray in her eye, her hand at the handle 


A ROOF 


13 6 

of the knife under her blouse, Mrs. Menchinini stood, all 
dressed up, in the parlor door. "I go for lawyer, smart 
a Jew lawyer. He get me Cetta. You hear me, Menchi¬ 
nini, you hear what I tell you?” 

"Yes, Mamma,” he said, mild as a kitten. 

"O K by you, Menchinini, I get me Cetta on parole to 
Miss Elliot?” 

"Sure, Mamma, O K, jake by me.” 

And he went on, cleaning the wedding ring, not an¬ 
other word out of him. 

Mary and Mrs. Menchinini entered the anteroom of the 
offices in Nassau Street. A girl, busy typing, said it would 
be half an hour before the lawyer could see them. On 
the right was a door with 'Sam Silverstein, Atty. at Law’ 
on its ground glass panel. On the left, a similar door, 
with 'Sid Silverstein, Insurance’ on the panel. 

Sid, opening his office door, saw Mary. He called het in 
for a little chat, very neighborly, very friendly. 

"I’m a social worker now,” she told him proudly; "I’m 
on the staff, over at the Ann.” 

"Oh, jeese, with the culture-slingers!” But Sid didn’t 
mean anything disrespectful by that, just his rough ways. 
Under his joshing, he was tickled pink at her good for¬ 
tune, especially when he knew a two-dollar weekly raise 
went with the new job. 

Mary wondered why he had not heard of it before, all 
the Neighbors were talking about it. But Sid said the 
Missus was in Cincinnati, visiting her cousins, and a col¬ 
ored maid was no hand to pick up gossip. That was the 
kind of husband he was, a maid in the house, the laundry 
sent out. 

"Do you think Sammy will take the case?” Mary asked, 


137 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

when she had told Sid about Cetta; “that he’ll get her 
paroled to the Annex?” 

“Sure, Mary, to the Ann, the D.A.R., the Holy Daugh¬ 
ters of St. Patrick, or any of them concerns. Depend on 
Sammy, a heart in him, big as a whale.” 

“Yesterday,” she changed the topic, “I went out on a 
case that was strictly confidential, and, Sid, what do you 
suppose was the cover I had to go under? You’ll laugh 
when I tell you I let on I was an insurance agent and a 
wealthy gentleman, a Mr. Richards, wants me to get him 
an insurance policy. Isn’t it a scream?” 

“It will kill me if I don’t write that policy. Think of it, 
Mary, the commission I can give you, your slice of it!” 

“But I can’t talk insurance, Sid; I don’t know enough 
about it, only a few things I’ve heard Mrs. Lantey say.” 

“Mary, you’re smarter than Mrs. Lantey, you’re a very 
smart girl. You talk insurance to this Richards guy and 
I’ll send Maybrick to write the policy. For them high- 
hats, I always send Maybrick.” 

“But what will I say to him?” 

Sid put several booklets into an envelope and handed 
it to the girl. “You can read, can’t you, Mary?” 

“Read what?” 

“Read this.” He shook the envelope under her nose. 
“Learn reasons why Mr. Richards ought to carry more 
insurance.” 

“But he wants me to have dinner with him next Mon¬ 
day. It was the only way I could ditch him, promising 
him the date.” 

“You are not ditching him, you will have dinner with 
him and talk insurance.” 

“But, Sid, suppose he tries to get fresh with me?” 


138 


A ROOF 


“Ain’t other guys tried to get fresh with you? But 
did you let them? You know how to take care of your¬ 
self, Mary.” 

“But, supposing, Sid, he won’t take out the policy, when 
he sees he can’t get fresh with me?” 

“Sure, ain’t that a gamble we take? What ain’t a gam¬ 
ble? If Richards is a lousy bastard, it’s too bad, we lose 
the policy.” 

“Then, you think I ought to go to dinner with him?” 

“Sure, but eat in a restaurant with him. No night 
clubs, no private rooms, no roadhouses. Keep in the heart 
of Manhattan, and you’re safe. And, a rule, don’t you 
never break it—one cocktail, no champagne, no wine.” 

“Suppose it makes him angry, me refusing to drink 
with him?” 

“Doctor’s orders, Mary, you have a weak heart. Last 
summer in the country, you got scarlet fever. Such a weak 
heart you have, no excitements, not even to have him put 
his arm around you. Not only that, Mary, you are mar¬ 
ried, you love your husband. That’s all right, good busi¬ 
ness women are married, it’s handy, saves complications. 
A good sport don’t mind a turn-down when there is a 
husband.” 

When Mary joined Mrs. Menchinini in the outer office, 
she was talking to another Wop woman and her blind 
husband, also waiting to see Sammy. “Oh, such a bone- 
head I have marry,” said the woman, turning to Mary with 
her story. It was a story to tear the heart out of you, the 
man blinded by an explosion when his boss ordered him to 
weld a gas-tank that was not first entirely emptied. The 
thing happened over a year ago, and the man had realized 
nothing more than his doctor bills. He just couldn’t get 


139 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

any further than having the agents of the liability insur¬ 
ance company hectoring him, stalling him at every turn. 

Then, the wife showed a tabloid with the story of a 
swell wedding, the daughter of the president of the com¬ 
pany her husband worked for had lately got married. 
There was a list of the wedding presents, among them a 
check for $100,000, the bride’s present from her daddy. 

"I see this in the paper,” said the woman, "and, now, 
you see me here with my bonehead husband, and I say to 
the bonehead, 'I take you to Sammy Silverstein, the poor 
man’s lawyer.’ ” 

Then, into Sammy’s office—and, just as Sid said, a heart 
in him, big as a whale. He took the case and he took the 
hundred dollars, a safe investment, for, as everybody 
knew, there was no beating Mr. Silverstein, once he took 
a thing over. 



Chapter Ten 


Monday morning and Miss Elliot not back yet, nor 
Mrs. Mason. In their absence, Mr. Felix Morrissey, head 
of Boys’ Work, was in charge at the Ann. He was good- 
looking, not married, and very nice. But, as Mary plainly 
saw, he had already made up his mind not to fall for her. 
He must be engaged, she thought, a young man of honor, 
no one to break his fiancee’s heart. She admired him for 
it, such strong character; and, no doubt, a terrible struggle 
on Mr. Morrissey’s part, him keeping true to the other 
girl and seeing so much of herself, them together for the 
entire forenoon, going over the items of Cetta’s case with 
a young lawyer from Mr. Silverstein’s office. The lawyer 
fell directly, the minute Mr. Morrissey went out of the 
room, didn’t he try to date up Mary? 

Mr. Morrissey approved of Sammy’s taking hold of 
Cetta’s parole to Miss Elliot. He said it was a wise move 
when Mrs. Menchinini went to the poor man’s lawyer. 
Mary let him think the choice was Mrs. Menchinini’s, not 

140 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 141 

hers, and not a peep out of her, no embarrassing details, 
no light on Mrs. de Costa and her money. So they worked 
to luncheon time in the little office, Miss Boots’s own office, 
right off Miss Elliot’s. Such a nice office with its private 
lavatory! But the building fairly bristled with lavatories, 
one at every turn. Mr. Goodrich was certainly toilet- 
minded when he built the Mem and the Ann. Very pe¬ 
culiar of the old gentleman, for, as everybody knew, if 
you were taken short in a Goodrich store, it was just too 
bad for you, no toilet accommodations for customers or 
employees. 

At one o’clock every afternoon, the Ann workers as¬ 
sembled in the room they called "the lounge” in the pent 
house construction on the roof, a beautiful spot with a 
terrace, not visible from the street. From the first, a Miss 
Trumbell had appealed to Mary. She was one of the volun¬ 
teers, a very pretty Junior League girl. Miss Trumbell 
used adjectives to different meaning than their definitions 
in the dictionary. She had two, principally, and did mar¬ 
vellously with them. If a thing was all right, it was divine; 
otherwise, it was wicked. Here was a young lady to study 
and pattern after, real refinement. Unfortunately, Miss 
Elliot did not fancy her, nor appreciate her. Such a diffi¬ 
cult person, claiming Miss Trumbell was a moron and 
should be fired! Too bad that such a nice girl didn’t know 
some things which Mary knew so well, and keep a wet 
finger out to all wind blowing from the Elliot direction. 
But that was Miss Trumbell, she didn’t have the sense that 
God gives geese. 

Today at luncheon hour Mary saw her chance to cotton 
to the Junior Leaguer, perfectly safe with no Lady Elliot 
on the scene. And such a lovely character, unsuspecting, 


142 


A ROOF 


only too happy to please everybody. Seeing a poor girl 
who liked nice things, Miss Trumbell gave Mary a bracelet 
to wear as long as she liked, a magnificent piece of jewelry, 
white gold set with sapphires. Miss Trumbell insisted that 
Mary wear it, then, she added her earrings which matched 
the bracelet. Later, she visited an hour with Mary and 
told her troubles, awful trouble, engaged to three different 
men at the same time and it a death blow to any two of 
the fellows, if she’d break with them! But that was she, 
Miss Trumbell said, a femme fatale. Mary, who knew her 
French and knew herself, realized she was in the same 
class, sisters under the skin they were. Before the lovely 
girl left the office, the other femme fatale got a valuable 
tip on what to wear this evening to dine with Mr. Rich¬ 
ards. As the dinner was for a business talk, Miss Trum¬ 
bell said Mary should not be in evening dress, that she 
should wear her tailleur, informal and smart. But, a per¬ 
fect lady, she asked no personal questions, such as wanting 
to know with whom Mary might be dining. Very con¬ 
siderate, too, as Mary did not want anybody to know 
about Mr. Richards, and her arrangement with Sid Silver- 
stein. Of course, she would have fibbed, if questioned. 
But such a friend, how hard to fib to a friend willing to 
loan you her jewelry! 

Mary sat with idle hands in her office. Usually she hated 
idle moments, time that should be put in on sewing, or 
doing something useful. But now that she was in love and 
had Lance to think about, it wasn’t so tedious. What a 
wonderful time they had had last Saturday and Sunday! 
Only one fly in the ointment, the third party in on the 
Saturday date. Another queer thing about love, how it’s 
in a girl’s nature to want to hog the boy friend, ready to 


AGAINST THE RAIN 143 

slay anybody who breaks in on them. But Lance did not 
realize this as yet. At present, he had only reached the 
falling stage—with quite a way to fall before he knew 
love, true love, good and deep and jealous. A lot of differ¬ 
ence, she realized, between her and Lance. To begin with, 
he was just twenty while she was twenty-one and a few 
months over. Girls come around several years earlier than 
boys, not that boys come around exactly. But they begin 
to shave, their voices change, the man starts to work in 
them. She had been quite previous herself, coming around 
at twelve, soon after she had vowed by everything holy 
that she wouldn’t fall in love with a poor fellow. And all 
these years, it in her to do the very opposite, her heart all 
full of love and only her strong character to keep her in 
check. What character Mary Boots had, her with a sex 
pull like a Mack truck—and her looks! The fellows that 
fell for her in the Neighborhood and at the can plant! 
The slickness of her, how smooth she was, side-stepping 
boys without making them enemies! The popularity it 
gave her with the girls, that they knew Mary Boots had 
no designs on their boy friends! However, the girls were 
on to her, all right; they knew she aimed sky-high in that 
regard. In fact, it was getting to be a joke. The gaff 
Mary had to take on the head of it, all the girls expecting 
to see her landed on the rocks yet, a sour old maid pining 
over the chances she missed in her past days! Before so 
very long, they would laugh out of the other side of their 
mouths! God, the glory of it, to let everybody see she 
had it in her to get a real prize. 

Another funny thing, thought Mary, she would not 
have done so badly if she had taken Aloysius Ryan, hand¬ 
some and attractive. Al was the smart one; he took every- 


144 


A ROOF 


thing the Mem gave him; he got in right with Mrs. Crom¬ 
well. He was a lawyer now. Mrs. Cromwell placed him 
with a swell firm in Chambers Street, directly after he 
finished his night class studies in the big law school in 
Washington Square. But, by that time, it was too late to 
get Aloysius, another girl had him, Stacia Dorgan, sister 
of Mary’s chum, Lily. 

No, Lance couldn’t be anywhere near to love yet, not 
when he could bring in a third party on their date last 
Saturday. How Mary’s spirits had sunk when he appeared 
in front of the Sutton Place apartment house with a fellow 
beside him! Then, as Lance handed her into the roadster, 
the butter-in shoved to the middle of the seat. No objec¬ 
tions from Lance, either! The fellow wasn’t so much, just 
a good dresser. His name was Ned Doggett, and he looked 
like he was sousing, eyes reddish, a smell of gin on him. 
From every appearance, Lance had a wet-nurse job on 
hand. Also it appeared that they had been in town since 
yesterday evening and Ned was quitting New Haven. 
Some trouble, probably, a scrape that got him fired from 
college. He was glum and down in the mouth something 
awful. 

Lance’s thoughts seemed principally on a show, afraid 
they’d be late for "Tobacco Road.” This hurry on, lunch¬ 
eon was nothing but sandwiches and coffee at a drug store 
counter, Ned eating nothing. 

The matinee was horrid, no juvenile lead. As for a star! 
What a star, an old skunk like Chid Billings, if Billings 
had a farm and lived in the country. For costumes, the 
leaving of a rummage sale couldn’t have supplied worse. 
The set was no better, the outside of a rickety old shack 
stuck out in the sticks somewhere. No love interest, no 


145 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

love-making you could see yourself in. Just a lot of dirty 
letching from men Mary wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot 
pole. What’s the value of a show, anyhow, if you can’t 
see yourself in it? You’ve got to hand it to the movies 
on one score. While they may not be arty like "Tobacco 
Road,” what a line the picture shows had on love, always 
making it more attractive as it got more sinful! If they 
put on "Tobacco Road” at the Mem Theatre, the Neigh¬ 
bors would walk out on the first act and beat it for the 
nearest movie house! But the other audience liked it, ate 
it up. They could, they were high-hats. To that snooty 
bunch, the matinee had no personal reminder that it’s no 
fun to be hungry, to live in dirty quarters, to wear rags 
not fit to clean a stove with. 

Leaving the theatre, Ned claimed he needed food—and 
on to a restaurant. But it was just a blind, he was after 
drinks, not nourishment. Lance wouldn’t let him have 
any. Then he played a dirty trick, excusing himself as if 
to go to the toilet. Ten minutes or so—and Lance ex¬ 
cused himself. He came back with Ned, whom he had 
found at the bar, swilling his head off. Then, it was coffee, 
black and strong for Mr. Doggett. The coffee might have 
been so much water. Instead of sobering up, Ned began 
to talk, thoroughly plastered. His life was ruined, he said, 
nothing more to live for. 

"Lance, you listen to me. You got to be careful, and 
take a lesson from me and not take up with any girl, a 
Winchester Arms girl in particular.” 

"Drink your coffee and close your trap,” said Lance. 
"Can’t you see you’re boring Mary?” 

"I want to talk to Mary too. Now, you listen, Mary. 
You got to warn your brother, the same’s I’m warning 


A ROOF 


146 

Lance. Tell your brother to steer clear of any girl that 
stops him in Orange Street and says, 'Hello, Handsome.’ ” 

"Mary,” Lance interrupted, "you see I’m in for it, don’t 
you? I’ll call a taxi to take you home, and call for you 
later this evening. I’ll give you a ring when to expect me.” 

"Leave my home wire alone, Lance, or you’re tied up for 
the evening, with my friends talking the two arms off 
you.” 

"Is Ned any improvement on your friends?” 

"Don’t bother about me,” cut in Ned. "I’m passing 
out of the picture. It’ll soon be train time and me on the 
choo-choo, back to home, Detroit, and Mother.” 

"I don’t mind Ned,” Mary smiled to Lance. "In my 
work, you should see the social cases I have to attend to. 
I have terrible problems to deal with, hectic, ghastly.” 

She felt quite proud of those two words, words Miss 
Trumbell fell back on whenever wicked or divine could 
not serve the purpose. 

"Mary, listen,” Ned came in again; "I was in Orange 
Street to buy a potted Stilton cheese at the Cheese Store, 
nothing on my mind but cheese. As I started to step into 
the store, Milly Jones came out and cooed, 'Hello, Hand¬ 
some.’ I came back with, 'Hello, Beautiful.’ ” 

"I’ve told you to cut it!” Lance snapped. "Can’t you 
see Mary’s not interested?” 

"But who was Millie Jones?” Mary refuted the state¬ 
ment. 

Lance shut him up, for it was time for Ned’s train— 
and on to Grand Central. The style some people could 
travel in, a private compartment on a Pullman that was all 
compartments. 

"Look here, Ned,” Lance laid down the law, "you just 


147 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

stick to your own compartment. If you eat, eat here, don’t 
go to the diner. Now get this: don’t buttonhole your 
fellow passengers to tell them about Millie Jones. They 
won’t be interested. If you must be confiding, give the 
porter the sad story of your life. Negroes are sympathetic 
by nature. The African mind is broad on sex questions; 

and kindly tip the porter in proportion to his compas- 

• )) 
sion. 

About twenty minutes later in the loveliest grill near 
the station, Mary faced Lance across a little table, a cock¬ 
tail for each, no more. 

"I know, Mary, Ned’s all kinds of a fool when he’s 
plastered. But I’ll miss him lots, he’s not a bad fellow.” 

"I don’t like your Ned’s appearance, Lance, not a little 
bit.” 

"Now, Mary, Ned’s all right.” 

"No, he isn’t. He doesn’t look trusty.” 

"Nothing wrong with Ned’s looks.” 

"Plenty wrong. He looks hangdog, like he was the 
one who committed the murder.” 

"Just to show you how dumb you are, Mary, Ned hasn’t 
taken a life. Quite to the contrary, he has given one.” 

"You’re crazy. Only God can give life.” 

"Have it your own way, then. We’ll say that Ned has 
been a contributory factor to the divine purpose.” 

"What do you mean?” 

"Mary, are you, or are you not a practical social 
worker?” 

"I am,” she insisted stoutly. 

"In your uplift endeavors, do you ever deal with the 
problem of the unmarried parent?” 

"Of course I do,” said Mary, recalling Sophy. 


148 


A ROOF 


"Then, as a social worker, hasn’t Ned said enough to 
convey the impression to your sociologically trained mind 
that he may be an unmarried father?” 

"Yes, it has occurred to me.” 

"I thought it would dawn on you sooner or later.” 

"And he ruined Millie Jones, didn’t he?” 

"That’s one term for it.” 

"What else could you call it then?” 

"Well, couldn’t we say that two poor devils have failed 
to conduct their personal biology according to the peculiar 
rules of a still more peculiar social system?” 

That sounded familiar, very like Stan Hayden, thought 
Mary, no horror of sin whatever. 

"I don’t approve of it. It was wicked in both of them 
and the only decent thing they could have done was to 
hurry up and get married before the kid was born.” 

"But, Mary, Ned’s mother didn’t get it from that slant, 
and Ned is one of those fellows who hasn’t the guts to 
break his mother’s heart.” 

"I suppose his mother is very society, isn’t she?” 

"Detroit’s creme de la creme, blueblood automobile 
aristocracy.” 

"And Millie Jones wasn’t, I take it.” 

"No, Mary, she wasn’t. Millie Jones worked for the 
Merchants of Death. She followed an unholy occupation, 
something to do with putting bullets into machine gun 
shells, I believe.” 

What a crazy kid Lance was, everything a joke with 
him, never taking serious things seriously! 

"Would you have married Millie?” She tried to pin 
him down to a definite statement that gave a line on his 
own personal opinions. 


149 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Mary, when a fellow goes in for that sort of thing in 
that sort of way, he should stand by the consequences.” 

"You mean he should have married her?” 

"Certainly.” 

"I’m glad to hear you say that, it shows you’ve an hon¬ 
orable nature.” 

"Mary, the whole thing is so screwy. At the turn of the 
century, a Mr. Jones worked for the Winchester Arms 
Company and a Mr. Doggett had a bicycle repair shop, 
both mechanics. The arms business flourished. The bicycle 
went out. Doggett turned his hand to tinkering with horse¬ 
less carriages, and that is the real reason some poor kid has 
to be a bastard.” 

"But how about Millie Jones, how’s she getting on?” 

"The New Haven Child Saving Society has the situation 
well in hand.” 

"What have they done?” 

"They did what they always do when New Haven’s 
poor Nell is not done right by.” 

"Please don’t fun it, Lance, it’s a terrible thing!” 

"I’m not funning it.” 

"You are!” 

"Mary, you’re so literal, so small town! But to get back 
to Millie, the Child Saving Society will make Ned’s father 
support the child. What Yale begets in New Haven is not 
New Haven’s onus.” 

"And Yale fired Ned for an example?” 

"No, the C.S.S. never contacts the faculty; they con¬ 
centrate on the offender’s parents. Ned’s marching orders 
came from home, not from school.” 

"Who’s in this Society?” 

"The town’s first ladies, all top notchers.” 


150 


A ROOF 


Again Mary thought of it, as she had thought of it last 
Saturday—a lot of things not true in Stan Hayden’s no¬ 
tions. But that’s the Red of it, never willing to give 
wealthy people their full credit. How lovely of the ladies 
in New Haven, the kindness of their hearts, standing by 
poor Millie Jones in her trouble! But Millie wasn’t so 
bright. With the souser that Ned was, why hadn’t it 
come into her head to get him plastered and marry him 
before he came conscious? 

Then another thought, much more disturbing. How 
could she square it with Lance, the fake she was, claiming 
she was wealthy and lived in Sutton Place? And when to 
tell him the truth! Anyway, not yet, not till he was in 
love, so in love that nothing would matter. But all said 
and done, didn’t the Fairy Godmother send Cinderella to 
the Prince’s ball in a phoney set-up, palming her off for 
a king’s daughter? Have you ever heard Cinderella called 
a little gold-digger? Have you ever heard the Fairy God¬ 
mother come in for any blame? When the Prince found 
a raggy Cinderella in the kitchen, did he set up a big howl, 
claiming something had been put over on him? Did you 
ever hear anybody say it was a bad story, not fit to tell to 
little children? No, and Mary could see her way to a 
good alibi when she told Lance the truth. Didn’t Lance 
josh her at their first meeting? Didn’t he say he would hunt 
up another riot and pitch her into the midst of it? Sure, 
that was the tack to take, claiming she began to josh him 
as he joshed her, an acquaintance that started in funning, 
nothing serious about it. She kept it up, just for the fun 
of seeing how long before he was smart enough to know a 
real New Yorker from a small town girl. Certainly, that 
was the stunt, that he called her a small town girl and she 


151 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

played him, just to show him he wasn’t so smart after all. 
Could anything be luckier, how sure he was that he could 
spot a small towner! Yes, that would save everything, 
Lance so cocky that he was a sure spotter, on to every¬ 
thing. Thank God, too, he was a humorous person, always 
joking! And as Lily Dorgan often said, only a person 
with humor can take a joke on himself. Lily was as smart 
as they make them, all brains, a private secretary to Mr. 
Herbert Johnson at the can works. Her mind was more on 
Lance’s order; she thought "'Tobacco Road” was a swell 
show; she got books from the pay library and despised 
pulp magazines. Certainly, Lily must be right about a 
humorous person’s attitude to a joke on himself. 


Chapter Eleven 


Mary was on an El train, bound for her date with Mr. 
Richards. Where was Lance this minute, she wondered, 
what was he doing? 

At the moment, Lance was doing nothing remarkable, 
merely at dinner with Steve MacKettrick. "Let’s go out 
to Jane’s next Sunday,” Mac had just suggested. 

"Sorry, but I can’t. I’m due in New York for Sunday.” 

"With the way you’re going in for New York lately, 
you’d better take an apartment there and commute to 
New Haven.” 

"I’m well caught up with my work, I can swing it.” 

"What’s up, a girl?” 

"A peach of a girl—big brown eyes, reddish-gold hair.” 

"Sounds perfectly O K by me. New, isn’t she?” 

"Yes, I met her the day you all walked out on me and 
my party. Some luck, I’ll say!” 

"Nice?” 

"That’s not half of it. She’s refreshing. She has me 
nuts, she’s so quaint, quaint as hell, and maybe I don’t 
find it fetching! Ever met a quaint girl?” 


152 


153 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

"How’d she get that way?” 

''Born so, the real goods, straight from the far-off sticks 
of Oklahoma.” 

"Atta boy, go to it, a girl from Cimarron, Osage prin¬ 
cess in white deerskin, daughter of Big Chief Crazy Bull 
with a thousand oil wells!” 

"You bonehead, Fve told you she’s a blonde. But she’s 
there with the wells, all right, her old man’s a big oil 
operator.” 

"How’d you meet her?” 

"None of your business.” 

"Pick-up?” 

"Not on your life! She’s quaint I’ve told you, and very 
circumspect.” 

"Falling for her?” 

"I don’t know.” 

"Where does she live?” 

"Sutton Place.” 

"So the oil king gets him a palace in an exclusive sec¬ 
tion?” 

"No, the family is in Oklahoma; the girl lives with old 
friends in an apartment house.” 

"Friends nice?” 

"I haven’t seen them and don’t want to. I hear they’re 
pretty awful.” 

"How do you keep in touch with this girl?” 

"Phone. I call up a drug store and leave messages for 
her.” 

"What’s she doing in the big city?” 

"Social work; she’s in a settlement house, one of their 
staff workers.” 

"What’s the name?” 


154 


A ROOF 


"Mary Boots.” 

"That’s quaint enough, I’ll say.” And Mac said no 
more. To him Mary Boots had a tinny ring, something off 
somewhere. But no need to worry about Lance, that boy 
could take care of himself. Yes, under his New Haven 
polish, Lance was tough as pig iron, as hard a young 
hombre as ever emerged from the smoke of Youngstown’s 
mill district. If the girl were putting something over, she 
would be the one to come out the worse in the end. 

When Mary reached the information desk at Grand 
Central, Mr. Richards was not yet in evidence. How 
funny, thought the girl, how very funny in Sid Silver- 
stein, him to warn her about this evening’s dinner! True 
enough, Mr. Richards might be up to something, on the 
make for her. But she wasn’t scared of him, not a bit! 
As long as she could remember, Mary knew she had what 
men wanted, but thank God, Mamma had brought her 
up to be ruin-conscious! Back in the old days, before 
the Mem playgrounds and the model tenements, mothers 
had to put the kids wise to some mighty raw stuff. The 
old ramshackle house where they used to live, what a tene¬ 
ment it was with all kinds of tenants—tarts, cadets, every¬ 
thing, good and bad people, all thrown together. The 
W.C. was in the cellar, open to the street, away to the 
rear at the end of a dark hall—nothing out of the ordinary 
to have to step over a plastered bum to get to it. Terrible, 
the things that could happen to a little girl in that cellar! 
Then, too, there was playing in the streets, and the men 
who offered a kid candy, or a treat to a movie, or an 
automobile ride. When Mary went to work at fifteen, 
Mamma put her wise to lots of things, wise to the slick 


155 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

men, the kind that don’t assault a girl but try to get 
around her by gentle means. She was on to them , too— 
you joshed them, careful to make no enemies in the turn¬ 
down. All the girls were on to this method; you didn’t 
lose your temper at a pass, something only a fool takes 
seriously. 

Mr. Richards showed up, ten minutes late. He wore a 
business suit. Thank heaven for Miss Trumbell’s tip, 
what a simp Mary would have felt herself had she put on 
her apricot crepe evening dress! But no matter what Mr. 
Richards wore, his clothes were overpowering, such per¬ 
fect fit, such perfect valeting, like that certain style that 
Adolphe Menjou puts over in the movies. In fact, Mr. 
Richards was very much on the Menjou type, the same 
under-eye puffs that come from immoral living, women 
and high jinks, Adolphe’s usual roles. He had the same 
smile, sardonic , Miss Trumbell’s word for it—meaning 
something like sarcastic, only more so. 

Nothing could have been sweller than his pick of a 
restaurant, certainly a choicy eater, that old boy. The 
place had a doorman with iron-gray side whiskers, dressed 
up like an army general, yards of looped gold rope on his 
cape, a deep saucepan cap on his head, white gloves, gold 
braid down his pants legs. Into the foyer, then, to clicking 
heels, soldier gestures from other generals. There was the 
choice of a private room or a balcony. Mary thought a 
balcony would be more pleasant, not letting on, of course, 
that her main idea was safety first. 

The restaurant was something like Wanamaker’s North 
Building, only on a smaller scale. Floors with balconies 
around a rotunda with its bottom fixed like a garden 
where a band played gorgeous music, mostly waltzes on 


156 


A ROOF 


the order of the "Blue Danube,” a German touch all over 
the place. The menu wasn’t a card, but a yard-square 
sheet of heavy paper, folded several times. Neither was 
the menu printed, but written out by pen in a plain hand. 
None of the dishes had their prices marked and customers 
ordered without the least idea of how they might be stung 
afterwards. 

Only one cocktail for Mary and certainly none of the 
champagne that came with the dinner. "I’ve got to go 
slow on my drinks,” she excused herself, "doctor’s orders, 
I’ve a weak heart.” 

"Rather an unusual affliction at your age, isn’t it?” Mr. 
Richards asked, his smile sarcastic, his teeth so noticeable 
under his dark mustache. 

"Oh, no, I’ve had scarlet fever.” Mary remembered 
Sid Silverstein’s tip. 

"Scarlet fever,” he repeated, less doubtful now. "You 
must come from the outlands. I hardly think scarlet fever 
is so prevalent in New York.” 

"Yes,” said Mary, "I come from Oklahoma, from a little 
place called Alda.” 

"So you are an Oklahoma product, the little girl from 
the far-off sticks, come to make her way in the great 
city?” 

"Yes, I guess that fits me, Mr. Richards.” 

"And not doing so badly in New York?” 

"No, not so badly, all things considered.” 

"You knew you had the goods, and you came to the 
place to show it?” 

Wouldn’t she have loved to bang him one, the flat of 
her hand across his face! The lousy high-hat who thought 
he could paw a girl’s ankles because, not able to afford 
a taxi, she had to take a lift from him. 


157 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"The goods I have to show is insurance,” Mary came 
back hotly, "and certainly I’d come to New York. There 
is more business here than in Alda.” 

"How long have you known Mrs. de Costa?” he asked 
then. 

In a flash, Mary had it; Mr. Richards was out for the 
low-down on Angelina! No wonder he didn’t like her 
turning down his champagne—the sneaking skunk, want¬ 
ing to take her out, get her liquored, get her talking! He 
had his suspicions of Mrs. de Costa, all right, his suspicions 
of herself. Somewhere, in something, Mr. Richards smelled 
a rat; probably he knew that Mr. Faunce wanted to marry 
Angelina. He was trying to block it by getting the real 
goods on the woman, showing up her record in South 
America, something that Mr. Faunce would balk at if he 
knew about it. As between the Faunce and Richards 
bunch against a poor girl, Mary was with Angelina. And 
to think that Mr. Richards could hand Mary that side¬ 
swipe about her coming to the big city to show her goods! 
That he could say that and then expect her to spill her 
bag of beans wide open into his lap! 

"How long have you known Mrs. de Costa?” Mary 
countered. 

"A charming woman,” he took a different tack, "the 
ideal brunette type.” And on in that strain he went, 
praising Angelina’s beauty to the skies, always referring 
to her as "Ange” in his talk. Finally, he asked suddenly, 
"You and Ange were friends in Oklahoma, I take it?” 

"Does Mrs. de Costa come from Oklahoma, Mr. Rich¬ 
ards? That’s queer! Somehow I had the idea she was a 
Cuban.” 

"I had interests that brought me to Alda in the days 
of its oil boom,” he said. "Quite a little town once and 


158 A ROOF 

many Mexicans, more or less Spanish, if I remember cor¬ 
rectly.” 

How smart he thought he was, smelling in Oklahoma 
for Mrs. de Costa! The dumb simp—and Angelina born 
and raised a few miles away, over in Hudson Street, 
Brooklyn! 

"Why the Mona Lisa smile, Miss Boots?” 

Mona Lisa, Mary remembered, was a picture in the Art 
Appreciation night class at the Mem, a lady without eye¬ 
brows. 

"Ask Mona Lisa—I’m sure she knows as much about 
Mrs. de Costa as I do.” 

But that crack, very good as a crack, lacked culture, 
for all the world as if Mary had never studied art appre¬ 
ciation. 

"How do you happen to know Ange de Costa?” he still 
persisted. 

"Why don’t you ask her? You’re much better ac¬ 
quainted with her than I am. I only know her in a busi¬ 
ness way.” 

"You intrigue me, Miss Boots, you’re such a remarkable 
little person. What is your first name?” 

"Mary.” 

"I should have known it, you ivould be Mary.” 

"Why Mary in particular?” 

"When inscrutable, they usually are Mary.” 

A word to remember and look up in the dictionary! It 
did not sound like a term that had to do with a girl’s 
looks, no compliment he was paying. Most likely he meant 
he was getting no goods on Mrs. de Costa. Nor would he 
get any, even if Angelina had been in his own class. There 
is such a thing as honor and she had it, although Mr. 


159 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Faunce had no right to marry a tart when New York is 
full of good women, glad enough to get such a wealthy 
gentleman. But a trust is a trust. Angelina came to her 
knowledge through an Ann case, and social work must be 
kept strictly confidential. Yes, Mary would keep mum, no 
matter if it cost her the insurance policy. 

"Now, Mr. Richards, let’s talk insurance for a change,” 
she suggested. 

"No, Mary, we’ll dispense with the talk. I’m taking out 
a straight life policy of one thousand dollars, payable on 
my demise to Flora Caldwell Parker, my nearest of kin, 
a distant cousin.” 

Mary winced, but struggled to preserve a smiling coun¬ 
tenance. The piker, cutting her down to a lousy grand 
because she wouldn’t give him the low-down on Angelina! 

"Yes, Mr. Richards,” she managed to say, "and when 
and where do you want Mr. Maybrick to call on you and 
arrange the details?” 

"Tell him to give me a ring. He’ll find my name in 
the telephone directory.” 

"But Mr. Richards, couldn’t I interest you in an an¬ 
nuity policy?” she made another try, confident she had 
the important points in Sid’s booklets well committed to 
memory. 

"While I’m thinking of it, Mary, you haven’t said how 
you came to know Mrs. de Costa?” 

"Has that anything to do with your annuity policy, 
Mr. Richards?” 

"It might.” 

"All right, Mr. Richards, I’ll see that Mr. Maybrick gets 
in touch with you very soon.” 

"How about an annuity policy, Mary?” 


160 


A ROOF 


"Such a nice dinner, such a lovely place and good music! 
Let’s enjoy it and not bother about business any more, 
Mr. Richards.” 

At that, he got down to dinner, to the drink part of it 
much more than the solids. How he began to cover the 
champagne was a caution. It went to his tongue, of course 
—and he was talking about Jamie, the finest fellow he 
knew, his best friend. Mr. Faunce certainly was on Mr. 
Richard’s mind something terrible, no doubt that Ange¬ 
lina was the trouble. Although he said nothing further 
about her, nor why he seemed worried about Jamie, it 
was plain as day to Mary—Mr. Faunce was going to marry 
the woman and Mr. Richards could see it coming. 

He was a bit plastered now, and Mary made another 
try at landing a good policy out of Mr. Richards’ change 
of humor. 

"No, Mary,” he broke in, "I do not need an annuity, 
nor have I an heir to leave anything to. I’m a solitary 
limb on a denuded tree, the last of my line.” 

"But you can’t tell, Mr. Richards, there’s no telling— 
you’re not so old. You may get married yet and have a 
family.” 

"I tried it once. It wasn’t a go. Nothing in it, not even 
a family.” 

"I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” she stooped to flattery; 
"you seem such a kind person, no one to treat his wife 
cruelly.” 

"Cruelty wasn’t the issue, Mary. The former Mrs. 
Richards would rather I whaled the tar out of her than 
have me look at another woman.” 

"I’m sure there’s no great harm in looking at another 
woman.” 


161 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Mary, I’m one of those unfortunate fellows whose feet 
just naturally follow his eyes. But there were other feet 
softly following mine—the former Mrs. Richards put her 
detectives on my trail.” 

"But couldn’t she find it from her heart to forgive you?” 

"Oh, she did forgive me, five times by actual count! 
Finally, she got tired of it.” 

He talked a lot like that, saying he had a Turk’s nature, 
all sorts of crazy things. 

At last it came, a pass at her. 

"Mary, you like expensive clothes, don’t you?” And 
how he looked when he said it! He had noticed her "Carry 
On” outfit. 

Mary said nothing—she waited. 

"I’m proposing nothing,” he began. "I’m leaving it to 
your own decision—would you like to know me better? 
Let’s play around for a while, not seriously, just getting 
acquainted?” 

"My husband wouldn’t like it.” Mary rose to the 
occasion. "He has a very jealous nature.” 

"Now, look here, Mary, I’m not rushing anything. 
But perhaps, after you know me better, there is a possibility 
that you and I might have some rather beautiful moments 
together.” 

Now she was on her own ground—the old game, the 
old lines, all things the girls say they say when they side¬ 
step passes without giving offense to the passer. 

"No—and thanks,” she told him. "It sounds swell, 
Mr. Richards, but I must decline, too dumb, maybe, to 
realize the golden opportunity I’m missing.” 

"Please, Mary, not so precipitate; it may be a rounded 
cycle of marvellous emotion.” 


162 A ROOF 

''Thanks, but remember my weak heart, the doctor 
says I must avoid excitement.’’ 

"But please, a minute, Mary . . 

"And please, Mr. Richards, don’t talk me into break¬ 
ing doctor’s orders. I’m young, I want to live.” 

"But, Mary, . . .” 

"I know just what’s on your tongue, Mr. Richards; 
you’re going to tell me you’re worth dying for, and I 
believe you are; but unfortunately, I’m scared of dying.” 

"Will you let me finish a sentence?” 

"No, I won’t. I know you’d win me over. I won’t be 
persuaded. I love life and mean to hold on to it as long 
as I can.” 

"Mary, I’ll not be exciting—I’ll be tender, soothing, the 
gentlest of lovers—my arms a refuge, a peaceful haven.” 

"But I can’t break my husband’s heart—he loves me.” 

"Mary, be a sport, make a bet! Show me your marriage 
certificate and I’ll pay the forfeit, a ten thousand dollar 
policy.” 

"Good-bye, sweet policy, I lose—careless of me, but 
I forgot to put my certificate in my bag this morning.” 

It ran on like that, on a joshing level, Mr. Richards 
laughing and taking no offense whatever. Mary could see 
he was puzzled at the turn-down and charging it to her 
dumbness to understand what he was offering. The nerve 
of some men, the gall of them! 

But they parted, the offer still open. "If your heart im¬ 
proves, Mary,” he said, "and you feel equal to the excite¬ 
ment, give me a ring, I’ll be glad to hear from you.” 

Sid Silverstein was what he said he was, a good gambler. 
He called Mr, Richards a lousy bastard—and let it go at 


163 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

that. However, he did send Mr. Maybrick to see the 
creature, and Mr. Richards did take out a thousand dollar 
life policy. 

Sid advised Mary to invest her commission in a year’s 
payment on a little tontine policy for Mamma, payable 
in twenty years. 

"And understand that I am doing this for you, Mary, 
to make you insurance minded,” Mr. Silverstein explained. 
"I’m losing by it, but you’re worth it. You study the dope 
I gave you, and you get on to yourself. With your looks, 
your style, your class, your appeal, you have it in you to 
be a good insurance woman. Take me up on this, and 
you’ll make more money than you can ever pull down 
at this culture slinging racket, over at the Goodrich Annex. 
My God, Mary, go into business, cash in on your face and 
the sex drag you got in you.” 

Poor Sid, he was so vulgar, so common! 

Meanwhile, Miss Elliot returned from Boston. But not 
a soul could say a consoling word to her over her grand¬ 
mother’s death. She was that way, you never mentioned 
death to her unless it was connected with the Ann business. 
She recognized death professionally, but not socially. 

And the Annex business went on, a lot of foot work, 
all this traipsing about, making personal appearance in the 
District homes. And Mr. Morrissey so witty about it, 
ward-heeling, he called it. Such a humorous man, saying 
that a successful settlement house was its own little 
Tammany, getting in right by taking good care of its own! 

Some Tammany, all right, thought Mary to herself, 
the Ann with its fat budget! The other houses were in the 
hole, Christopher Guild and the rest of them were limping 
along shoestring style, trying to make out with dumb 


A ROOF 


164 

WPA workers who hadn’t the least idea in the world 
what it was all about. The Depression had certainly hit 
them , left them without funds to pay trained workers. As 
trained workers have to eat, the Government was taking 
them on for big welfare projects which took lots of them 
away from New York and distributed them over the 
country in general. But not the Mem, not the Ann, they 
had Goodrich money to run on. 

But there was more than foot work to Mary’s job, the 
hard study that was put on her! But, thank heaven, it 
wasn’t reading—she did not have to stick her nose into 
any books! Miss Elliot didn’t believe in books on social 
work. Instead of books, the Ann workers listened to two 
lectures a week, delivered by Mrs. Mason. According to 
the posted list of lectures, they seemed mostly about 
malnutrition, maladjustment; in fact, mal-everything. 
The last lecture might be called mal-sex, raw stuff, taking 
all the thrill out of sex, a very uninteresting subject when 
scientifically handled. When the sex lecture was over, 
Mary hunted up a revival of "Peter Ibbetson” to lift her 
fallen ideals and bring romance back to her soul. Seeing 
Gary Cooper and Ann Harding in the play was a godsend 
—their beautiful love story, love stronger than prison walls, 
than death itself! 

How queer high-hats were, they and their realism, their 
looking down on sentiment! What if "Peter Ibbetson” 
wasn’t true to life like "Tobacco Road”? 

All this thing was much a matter of the different ways 
the different classes used their imaginations, Mary told her¬ 
self. Wealthy people didn’t have to have such personal 
imaginations. They had real fun, not fun they had to 
imagine for themselves. With them, a show was just a 


165 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

show, something to look at. They were perfectly pleased 
with their lot, they did not have to go cloudy in the theatre 
and think the things they saw were things that were hap¬ 
pening to them. When they were kids, they had every¬ 
thing grand around them, everything tops for them. 
Wealthy kids don’t have to play that their fathers are 
wonderful gentlemen, that their mothers are fine ladies. 
They don’t have to get into an old box and imagine it’s an 
automobile, nor that bread is cake. Yes, a lot of mind¬ 
training in eating snow and kidding yourself that it’s a 
maple-nut sundae. 


Chapter Twelve 


''Mamma,” said Marge, "you got to change the buttons 
on my spring coat. It’s too tight, it don’t fit me, this year.” 

"Lay off on don't when you say it” corrected Connie. 
"Ain’t Mary told you, a hundred times, to say doesn't with 
it and him and her ?” 

"And she’s tolt you not to say ain't” 

"And she’s told you not to say tolt” 

The weight of her responsibility crushed suddenly down 
on Eflie’s maternal heart. What wonderful girls she had, 
them twins only eleven and that refined! What a family 
she had, what a credit to her! 

Effie sent the children into the living room and sobbed 
as she washed the dinner dishes. She could hear Mary 
at the piano, her beautiful, her refined, and accomplished 
young lady daughter. Heaven knows she was proud of 
that girl, her so smart, a staff worker at the Ann. But this 
new rise in the world only made it all the worse, the more 
shame put on Mary! And God knows it looked like the 


166 


167 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

shame was coming! The Regulator continued to fail to 
work on her. If she could only have walked farther, last 
Sunday—she had tried hard enough, but her strength hadn’t 
stood by her. As it was, it had been a long walk, all the 
way to Brooklyn, and then to collapse in her tracks in front 
of Borough Hall. The cop who picked her up was very 
kind and helped her to a street car. And the state of her 
feet, heels all a blister, every toe an ache, a feeling like 
needles were running through her calves! 

Thinking of needles, Mrs. Peroni claimed a knitting 
needle was all right, if gently managed. Mrs. Peroni used 
a knitting needle to miscarry. Poor thing, she had plenty 
to excuse her, now that Mr. Peroni lost his right leg after 
his accident, a case of a hit-and-run driver. Up to that 
time, he was a hard-working man, doing his best by his nine 
kids and them coming at the rate of two every three 
years. But since her husband lost his leg, Mrs. Peroni was 
doing well with the knitting needle, never sick for more 
than a few days, every four months or so. She claimed it 
was better than paying a midwife five dollars for the 
slippery elm operation as the slippery elm sliver can’t be 
sterilized, while a knitting needle can be made sanitary 
by holding it in a flame. That did away with the danger 
of blood-poisoning afterwards, the thing that killed Mrs. 
Henner last summer, leaving her eight kids to the step¬ 
mother that was put over them before the sod got hard 
on their poor dead mother’s grave. Mrs. Moran on the 
second floor had some smart trick that she was not telling— 
never a day sick and only three kids in fifteen years and 
saying it was natural with her, very superior about it, 
like being breedy was beneath her. The airs of some 
women, them trying to put it over that having a big family 


168 


A ROOF 


is a common trait in a woman, just like Queen Victoria 
didn’t have nine and only stopped when Prince Albert 
died on her! Of course, there were other things, the things 
the high-hats did, exclusive information for exclusive 
people in high society. What poor folk know about is 
not reliable, just like in her own case now. The trust she 
had put in vinegar and how it had failed her as a pre¬ 
ventive. 

From the living room came the strains of Paderewski’s 
minuet. Oh, God, her lovely daughter, pretty as a flower, 
smart as a Philadelphia lawyer. And her sunk by a mother 
who let her tail run away with her head! But Mary wasn’t 
going to be sunk. And where was it, wondered Mrs. Boots, 
just where had she run across a knitting needle the other 
day? It was a white needle, lying somewheres, in with a 
broken tack-hammer, a rusted shoehorn, and an old pair 
of smoked spectacles with one glass missing. It must have 
been in the box on the highest shelf over the stove. Sure 
enough, there it was, in with a lot of odds and ends. 

But for the nerve to do it, some way to work up the 
nerve necessary! Mr. Plykas had a bit of brandy in the 
cupboard, not that he was a drinking man, taking it 
seldom, only when he had indigestion. But, dear me, the 
brandy was very low, no more than an ounce left in the 
bottle! 

Mrs. Boots drank the ounce and felt the braver for it. 
Lighting the gas stove, she held the needle in the flame. 
The needle took fire, burning fiercely. For the love of 
Pete, Mrs. Peroni must have meant a steel, not a celluloid 
one! 

Mrs. Lantey had a set of fine steel needles, always 
knitting Mr. Lantey’s winter socks, him having rheumatic 


AGAINST THE RAIN 169 

ankles. But never in the world could Mrs. Boots borrow 
one of those needles and have a sick turn directly after¬ 
wards, not with the tongue that woman had in her head! 
Grandma Dorgan knitted a lot, but always with celluloids 
—scarfs mostly and sweaters. Past six o’clock already, the 
stores closed, no buying any needle now. And it had to be 
now , while Mrs. Boots had the nerve to do something brave 
and desperate. As everybody knows, turpentine and 
kerosene, mixed together, is reliable, if long enough con¬ 
tinued. But it about finished a woman, bringing on terrible 
retching, like to be followed by convulsions. But, being 
as the convulsions was what really done it, no true mother 
would balk at suffering for her daughters. She’d go 
through with it, heaven help her and the dear Lord for¬ 
give her for a sin next door to murder! Thank God, there 
was some kerosene in the bathroom; yes, and a half a bottle 
of turpentine, left from the time Mary painted the dinette 
chairs. 

But the smell of the stuff, once it was mixed in a tea¬ 
cup, ready for drinking! 

Again and again Mrs. Boots lifted the cup to her lips— 
and as often set it back on the table. Her mouth couldn’t 
take it. The flesh so weak, so powerfully weak against 
the willing spirit. And suppose she died in convulsions, a 
mortal sin on her soul, no time to repent and get forgiven? 
It is hard enough to die in a state of grace, knowing heaven 
is waiting for you. Death had always had a scare for her, 
something in the thought of a coffin, 'going into the 
ground, six feet of dirt put on top her! 

Something fluttered into the kitchen, over the lowered 
upper sash of the window. Mrs. Boots shrieked—a bird 
flying into the house, a sure sign of death in the family! 


170 A ROOF 

It was a warning, a warning from heaven! She’d die in 
convulsions! 

"What’s up now?” asked Mary, standing in the door, 
the twins behind her. 

"A bird flew in, a sign of death within the month, never 
known to fail.” 

"Hooey, Mamma, don’t talk like an ignorant foreigner!” 

"But, Mary dearie, I never knew an American that wasn’t 
the same over a bird flying into the house.” 

Mary’s eyes rested scornfully on the dire sign, perched 
atop the cupboard. "You’re crazy,” she said, "that’s just 
a pigeon, one of Tony Lapetti’s homers. You know he 
has a cote of them, up on the roof.” 

"A pigeon’s a bird, dearie; and death is bound to follow 
this, sure as thunder after lightning, a death in the family.” 

"Perfectly O K by me,” put in Marge, "so long as it’s 
Papa.” 

"That’s something to consider,” agreed the mother; "and, 
come to think of it, it’s too slim-bodied for a she, it must 
be a he-bird, an old one from the look of the feathers.” 

"Hurrah, it’s Papa!” said Marge. "The only old he in 
this family.” 

They ran back to the living room, making fun of it. 
But Mrs. Boots knew better—hadn’t she facts to back her? 
Didn’t her little sister Nancy die of a fever within the 
month a baby sparrow was blown by a windstorm 
through their window in Manchester? It must have been 
a little she-bird, although nobody thought of that at the 
time. 

"Is that a he-bird?” Mrs. Boots asked Tony when he 
came in to get his pigeon. 

"Sure,” he told her. 


171 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Young or old?” 

"What I’d call middle-age for a bird—and he’s a bum, 
always starting trouble.” 

Could anything better fit Billy Boots—middle-aged, a 
he, a bum? And the month half over. Sometime within 
the next fortnight, someplace, somewhere on this earth, 
Billy would breathe his last. Back into the bottle went 
the mixture, a very good metal cleaner; but nothing for 
Mrs. Boots to risk death on, not when she’d soon be a 
widow free to marry the baby’s father. Now, the thing was 
to get a good night’s sleep, the first she’d have had since she 
knew she was in trouble. 

Mrs. Boots was up unusually early with Mr. Plykas’s 
dinner ready when he arrived home from work—omelette, 
a baked potato, a lettuce salad. "It’s an occasion,” she ex¬ 
plained at his look of surprise. "It’s all right, Mr. Plykas, 
we’ll be married in three weeks. Billy will be dead and 
gone by that time.” 

But the stubborn pig-headed man that he was and a 
Socialist as well, Mr. Plykas took no stock in the sign of 
death, all silly superstition, he said, this believing in such 
things. No use in arguing, he simply wouldn’t listen to 
reason. 

So Effie took herself down a flight to see Mrs. Lantey 
and brought the conversation around to clairvoyants, 
Mrs. Lantey being wise to all such subjects. 

"Now, take it from me, Bootsy,” her neighbor voiced 
her convictions, "I’m all off mediums and clairvoyants, 
fakes, all of them. There is only one reliable mystic, the 
crystal gazer.” 

This announcement seemed most reasonable to Effie. 
Hadn’t a medium misled her about Billy dying in Chicago? 


172 


A ROOF 


"There’s a wonderful man,” Mrs. Lantey went on; 
"Lantey was telling me about him only the other night. 
He’s Zithero, and all the ladies in Park Avenue goes to him 
for to find out about their husbands. Lantey heard it with 
his own ears at the Bankers’ Club.” 

"But didn’t Mr. Lantey mention their real names, Mrs. 
Lantey?” broke in Effie. 

"No, Bootsy, that he did not. Lantey ain’t giving me 
any real names, not any more, not since he’s took to sus- 
picioning me of mentioning a particular name he told me 
I could not mention. Not that I did so, but that’s Lantey, 
a man of suspicious nature.” 

"But, Mrs. Lantey, what was it that Mr. Lantey heard 
about the mystic?” 

"As I was saying, Lantey heard it with his own ears, 
all about Mrs. Whosis suspicioning Mr. Whosis. So she goes 
to Zithero, the crystal gazer, and he sees it in the crystal, 
and, acting on the cue, Mrs. Whosis goes to the love-nest 
and catches Mr. Whosis red-handed with his little cutie.” 

Effie asked no more questions. Mrs. Lantey too was a 
suspicious nature. 

But Zithero was in the phone book, and the next day, 
Mrs. Boots became his client. But such an expensive mystic, 
five dollars a sitting! The cost would be something fierce, 
which was the fault of the crystal, not of Zithero. He 
did the best he could and did see Billy lying at the point 
of death in a hospital. It was wonderful, what mystics 
could see—the way he described it, Billy on the bed in a 
ward, a fever on him, a nurse putting ice packs on him, 
a house doctor shaking his head to the nurse, a sign to her 
that it was all up with Billy, that he was a doomed man, 
beyond all help. 



173 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Mr. Zithero, please, where is this hospital at?” asked 
EflSe. 

But she shouldn’t said nothing, a mistake to interrupt 
a crystal gazer. Her voice broke up the mystic flow, the 
glass ball clouded to Zithero, and he couldn’t tell any more 
at that sitting. The next day, at another sitting, things 
went no better, although Effie kept a tight tongue in her 
head all through Zithero’s description of what he seen in 
the crystal. But he said he’d get around to it yet and see 
something that could place the town and the hospital where 
Billy lay dying. 

Dear Lord in heaven, the money it was going to cost, 
keeping tabs on Billy until the crystal revealed the where¬ 
abouts of that particular hospital! But Mr. Cohen was so 
kind, him to pay a week’s wages in advance, on the claim 
it was for a dentist bill. Then, too, something might be 
raised on the furniture, and the radio could be sold and 
Mary be told it was at the repair shop. If it was only a 
little later in the spring and time to put the winter coats 
in moth-balls in the chest! Them coats ought bring in a 
pretty penny if put in hock, them all bought at the 
"Carry On” Shop and having real fur cuffs and collars! 


Chapter Thirteen 


Sammy Silverstein had just straightened out Cetta 
Menchinini’s case. Miss Elliot was sending Cetta to board 
with a modern-minded Wop woman in Troy, where the 
poor thing would go to business college and finish her com¬ 
mercial education. A return to the District would be the 
girl’s final ruin, Miss Elliot thought. Only God knew 
what it was costing that grand woman, but that was her, 
ready to spend her own money like water. While Mary 
was wondering what bricks Stan Hayden could find to 
throw at such a magnificent capitalist, Mary’s thoughts 
were interrupted. She heard Miss Elliot tell Miss Kramer 
to call up Sammy Silverstein and invite him to luncheon 
at the Ann. A man she wanted to know, she said. 

For God’s sake, gasped Mary to herself, suppose Sammy 
spills the beans and tells Miss Elliot how he was brought 
into Cetta’s case? 

"Oh, Miss Elliot, a minute, please!” 

"Don’t bother me now, Mary, I’m busy.” 


174 


175 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

"But, please, Miss Elliot, I feel there is something you 
ought to know about the Menchinini case. 

"I know too much about it, as it is.” 

"But, Miss Elliot, about Cetta . . .” 

"Bother, Mary, I’ve had results.” 

"But it was so unusual, Miss Elliot, that you should know 
the details.” 

And Mary sailed in regardless. In a few lengthy, highly 
involved sentences the story was divulged. 

And didn’t Miss Elliot listen, just didn’t she, and with 
both ears? 

"And you say the man is James Faunce?” 

"Yes,” Mary affirmed. 

"Charlotte, Charlotte,” Miss Elliot called to Mrs. Mason 
in the adjoining office. "It’s simply preposterous, Charlotte; 
but whom might you suspect as Angelina Menchinini’s 
lover?” 

"Annie, I haven’t the least idea.” 

"It’s Jamie Faunce!” 

Miss Elliot turned to Mary. "Now, this Mrs. de Costa, 
tell me, is she attractive?” 

Mary’s description did justice to Angelina’s luscious 
beauty, her exquisite clothes, her curved slenderness, her 
appealing personality, her devotion to her friend’s hobbies, 
to everything. 

"Splendid! Charlotte, you know it’s coming to Jamie; 
he rates a nice mistress. Emily Faunce certainly hasn’t made 
life very easy for him.” 

How terrible, thought Mary, the privileges of the 
wealthy, all right for a high-hat to have a mistress when 
he had a pill of a wife. That class could take that view of 
it; they were not the class that supplied the mistresses. And 


176 A ROOF 

how queer, too, about herself—how Mary Boots could go 
class conscious at the snap of the fingers! 

Charlotte saw what Annie did not see, the horror on 
the face of the Boots girl. 

"Don’t take it so seriously, Mary,” she said very 
gently, "Miss Elliot does not mean it in the way you think.” 

"Oh, I understand, Mrs. Mason, I’m on to a lot of 
things now. That’s being sophisticated and Miss Elliot 
is only talking sophisticated.” 

"So you understand sophistication, do you?” 

"Yes, Miss Elliot, I think I’m getting the hang of it.” 

"Let me hear it, then. I’ve yet to hear a satisfactory 
definition of that much overworked word.” 

"It’s something, Miss Elliot, that comes from being so 
dead sure of yourself that you don’t have to take pains. 
It’s feeling you’re so good that you can talk wicked. It’s 
being so refined that you know you can be common.” 

The woman jumped from her desk and hugged the girl. 

"Mary Boots, you’re a marvellous creature, the find of a 
lifetime. What have I ever done to deserve you?” 

How wonderfully everything worked out. Mary was 
invited to dine with Miss Elliot that evening, and not only 
that, but Miss Elliot, not knowing that Mary had an eve¬ 
ning outfit of her own, took the girl to her dress shop, 
rigging her from head to toe—an orchid, girly-girly chiffon, 
sandals, stockings, everything to match. She ordered the 
things sent to her house and said that Mary could dress 
for dinner there. 

"And mind,” she warned, "not a peep out of you that 
you have ever had so much as a brass pin from me. Mary, 
my life is made miserable by the leeches I have on me, 



177 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

each jealous of the other, counting and comparing what I 
give them. With the sole exception of Charlotte Mason, 
they’re a bunch of cats, toms and tabbies! I hate my 
cousins, my nieces, my nephews! Some day, when I work 
up sufficient strength of character, I’ll ditch them all. 
Money is a frightful curse; I wouldn’t wish it on my worst 
enemy.” 

When it came time to knock off for the day, Miss Elliot’s 
car, an old Rolls limousine, no sooner started from the Ann 
than she began to row with Grant, her chauffeur, because 
she smelled monoxide gas. The glass panel behind the 
driver’s seat was kept open, probably left so for nagging 
purposes. 

"No, Miss Annie,” corrected the chauffeur, "you couldn’t 
smell monoxide, it is an odorless gas.” 

"Then what is this I’m smelling?” 

"An impurity in the gasoline, Miss Annie. For which 
you, a big stockholder of Standard Oil, are more responsible 
than I am.” 

Just like that, Grant sassing her back, word for word. 
A funny-spoken man, all of sixty-five, a thick Scotch 
tongue in his head. In his trim uniform, he looked as 
queer as he sounded, bushy-haired with a comic strip 
mustache. The hair, originally red, but half-gray now, 
gave a delicate pink effect, a color illy fitted to Grant’s 
big build and roughly cast features. 

Miss Elliot made him detour to avoid the gas fumes 
in the street he had chosen to route the car. He followed 
her directions to the letter. The smell got worse than ever. 
She accused him of sending the engine exhaust into the 
body of the limousine. He always did this, she claimed, 
when he was not allowed to choose his own routes. 


178 A ROOF 

"Then why don’t you trust my judgment in the first 
place?” Grant burred to that. 

"Because you’re the dumbest man that ever sat at a 
wheel,” she snapped. 

He came back that he must be the cleverest, or else how 
could he divert the engine exhaust into the car, a 
mechanical impossibility? 

"Grant, you’re the most pig-headed person that ever 
lived, the most exasperating.” 

"As to that, I have nothing on you, Miss Annie.” 

Mary held her breath at the man’s retort, expecting to 
see him fired on the instant. But that wasn’t all, if he 
didn’t turn to Mary at the next red light. "I’ve known 
her for forty-seven years,” he said; "the same Miss Annie. 
I was the old gentleman’s coachman. A grand man, her 
father, the old Doctor, a pleasure to drive for him.” 

Nor was Grant fired on reaching Sutton Place. Wealthy 
people sure are funny, thought Mary. As she got out of 
the car, Miss Elliot asked the chauffeur about Sarah, his 
wife, most probably. Was she going to Dr. Tommes, was 
she taking the treatments for her anemia? 

"Yes, but you know Sarah, Miss Annie, she’s worrit 
over the treatments, the cost of them.” 

"When I send Sarah to my doctor, I pay for the treat¬ 
ments. Tell Sarah to cut out her nonsense, or she’ll hear 
from me!” 

It was a private house, a few doors from the big apart¬ 
ment house where Lance thought Mary lived with the 
oldish ladies who never stopped talking. No sooner was 
Miss Elliot inside her own door than she started fussing 
with Landers, the butler. It was too hot, she told him, the 
rooms like so many ovens. The butler sassed back, the same 


179 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

as the chauffeur. Landers was nothing like the butlers you 
see in the movies. He wasn’t English; he didn’t drop his 
"h’s”; he wasn’t a comic. On the contrary, he was Scotch 
and not a bit funny. 

"Annie, close your trap,” a man’s voice came through 
a wide archway. "It’s a raw day and I told Landers to 
turn on the heat. You know how much I don’t enjoy 
frigidity.” 

The man was Judge Ramsey, dressed in a silk lounging 
robe, lying on a couch in the library, reading a magazine. 
Mary watched the reflection in a panel mirror on the 
opposite wall of the living room. As the Judge got to his 
feet, Landers was instantly on the job, helping him out of 
the robe and into his dress coat. Where the coat came from 
Mary had not the least idea, nor where the robe went to, 
either. Landers didn’t have it when he came out of the 
library. 

At the head of the upstairs hall, Landers told a maid, 
Nancy, to see to Miss Boots. Miss Elliot went on to her 
own room, saying nothing. All the things from the dress 
shop were in the closet of a guest-room on the third floor, 
one of two small rear chambers, connected by a bath. The 
tub was already filled, Nancy standing by, as if she might 
be expected to bathe the dinner guest. Mary had no in¬ 
timate knowledge of grand houses, but she did know grand 
servants. She was friends with lots of them. They were 
nobody to get down on you, and nothing in the world that 
they hated more than waiting on a person who was not a 
hirer of servants, just as grand as themselves. They had 
gimlet eyes, nothing they couldn’t see through. And how 
they could do a person with the Madame, once they set 
about it! 


180 


A ROOF 


''Don’t bother about me, Nancy,” Mary told the maid. 
"I’m just Mary Boots, one of the Mem Neighborhood girls, 
and I’m used to waiting on myself. I’ve come into a swell 
job, but it’s not made me swell-headed. You’d only em¬ 
barrass me, if you tried to help me bathe or get dressed 
for dinner. I wouldn’t know how to take it.” 

"Spoken like a true lady, Miss Boots. I admire you for 
it. But some of them that SHE brings here, they’d turn 
your stomach with their airs and pretensions.” 

Nancy left, very friendly. Nothing to fear from that 
quarter. 

In half an hour, a demure Mary in cloudy orchid chiffon 
came down the stairs. The rooms revived her recently 
shaken faith in the cinema. The set-up was so familiar, 
right out of the pictures. All the old portraits were on 
the walls, paintings of Miss Elliot’s ancestors, some from 
far back, judging by costumes. Miss Elliot came by her 
face honestly, from homely people, the women especially. 
Everything was there, including the tapestry on the wall 
by the stairs and the old General painted in uniform and 
the Admiral with his long spyglass. There was the lady 
in blue with the piece of gauze over her big bosom and a 
kid standing on each side of her chair, the open window, the 
landscape with a spurting fountain. Nancy, such a nice 
Scotch girl, showed Mary around, telling her who they 
were. There used to be crossed sabers over the general’s 
portrait, but SHE took them down, after she became such 
a strong pacifist. SHE, of course, was Miss Elliot, the way 
servants always speak of Madame when they are not on 
dress parade. Nancy thought SHE was going to send the 
Admiral and the General to relatives in Boston on account 
of them being in military uniform, SHE was that hard-set 


181 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

against war. HE said to get a painter to put them in peace¬ 
ful dress, and save them for their faces. HE was that way, 
a pleasant gentleman, fond of his little jokes, and nothing 
whatever of a pacifist. HE, Mary deduced, must be Judge 
Ramsey. 

After Nancy left her, Mary wandered on into the music 
room, a newer addition evidently, extending into the yard 
with a wonderful view of the East River. Before the piano 
sat HE, playing "The Bluebells of Scotland,” playing 
absently, a tender touch on the keys, sensitive, the love of 
music that comes from the marrow of the bones. 

The Judge was lovely, saying Miss Elliot had said 
that Mary should entertain him until she came down. He 
began to talk, still playing. His ear was true, but his count 
was his own, adapting the beat to conversation. Probably 
he had no idea he was playing the piano, his mind so oc¬ 
cupied with Miss Elliot’s state of health, worrying over her 
overdoing. Whatever was between them, it was strong, 
whether friendship or otherwise. The evil minds in the 
world, some people saying he was after her money. That 
couldn’t be the case, or else he would have married her 
long ago. Or could it really be that Miss Elliot would not 
have him? No, this was too unlikely; for a man of his 
years, the Judge was very handsome, a good figure, tall, 
not a sign of baldness. He didn’t have hairs in his ears 
and nose like poor Mr. Carew; and much older than the 
Vicar, he wasn’t going slopping over his collar, nor growing 
a stomach. Of course, Judge Ramsey was nothing a girl 
would fall for, but he should look mighty good to a woman 
as old as Miss Elliot. Such a grand dresser, too; but no way 
coming up to the style plus of Mr. Richards. 

The talk was about music and the Judge so pleased to 


182 


A ROOF 


hear that Mary had studied it ever since the Mem got run¬ 
ning. However, he was more interested in folk music than 
in Bach Chorals and other highbrow stuff. Mary compli¬ 
mented him on his ear, his own improvisations in beat, as¬ 
suring him he could have been one of the world’s great 
musicians. 

"But,” she promptly interrupted herself, "what a silly 
thing for me to say to a great lawyer, that he should have 
been a musician.” 

"Not so silly,” Ramsey contradicted; "the law has been 
my frustration. At your age, I saw life very differently 
from the path marked out for me. But unfortunately, my 
father was a lawyer, and his father, and his father.” 

"Then you did want to be a musician, Judge Ramsey; 
you did know you had it in you?” 

"Yes, but the family did not see it that way,” he said, 
kind of sighing. 

How wonderful, Judge Ramsey so intimate, treating 
Mary Boots as an equal! She must have something very 
remarkable about her; a strange, mysterious appeal. 

"Mary, at your age, I saw myself with the soul of a 
minstrel.” 

His foot came off the soft-pedal. He played "The Bonny 
Earl of Moray,” "The Bonnets of Dundee”; played bril¬ 
liantly, singing snatches from the songs as he played. 
Thrilling, to hear him in 

"Come, fill up my cup; come fill up my can. 

Come, saddle the horses and call out the men; 

And open the west port, and let me gang free; 

And it’s up with the bonnets of bonny Dundee.” 

It was so dramatic, goose-fleshing Mary down the back 
and arms. Miss Elliot appeared in the doorway. "Hector,” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 183 

she asked, "can’t you touch an instrument without reverting 
to barbarity?” 

He looked her in the eyes, all defiance, finishing out with 

"The churls of Kilmarnock have pikes and have spears, 
And long-handled halberds to kill Cavaliers.” 

Miss Elliot shut the piano on him, saying he was glorify¬ 
ing war and slaughter. They probably fought plenty, 
having peace to fight about, the most disturbing subject 
in the world. 

Music out of the picture, they all went into the library. 
Judge Ramsey’s hands in his pockets, singing from some 
ferocious ballad, all sword slinging and fighting. 

He certainly was the tease. But an artist at heart, the 
soul of a musician. Acting that way and such a brilliant 
man, he could not be courting the Elliot money. He was 
much more like a quarrelsome old friend, or long-married 
husband in his way in the house. Then she fussed again 
about the heat, saying it was at the boiling point. He took 
a thermometer from his pocket—undoubtedly carried for 
just this purpose—and proved the temperature was sixty- 
five degrees Fahrenheit. 

Miss Elliot might be grieving for the grandmother, 
but no hint of mourning in her dress. Her evening gown 
was copper colored moire silk, stiff as if a tinsmith had 
soldered it on her out of sheet metal. A fierce dress, 
making her look thinner. Her hair, freshly set, covered 
her head like a gun metal cap pressed into waves. Long 
earrings of copper, or gold that looked like copper. About 
her stemmy neck, a loop of coppery disks, set with rubies. 
Just one ring, a big oval ruby on the first finger of the 
right hand. Then Landers appeared and mentioned three 



184 


A ROOF 


gentlemen by name, saying they were dining with Miss 
Elliot this evening. When Miss Elliot said she hadn’t in¬ 
vited them, Landers said they had invited themselves, just 
phoning in that they were to be expected and to hold 
cocktails till their arrival at eight o’clock. 

"The gentlemen said they were detained,” explained the 
butler, "and Mr. Lowerey sent his apologies to Miss Elliot 
for their not being able to be here at 7:45.” 

She took on something awful and said everybody im¬ 
posed on her. Did her friends think her home was a free- 
lunch counter, a short-order diner? Why, she might as 
well open a soup kitchen for every Tom, Dick, and Harry 
who found himself without a dinner date. 

Judge Ramsey told Miss Elliot to subside and stop her 
posing; that she liked to be imposed on, she thrived on it. 
Then, mentioning the gentlemen’s names, he said there 
were a hundred attractive young women in New York 
who would be only too glad to have them at their tables 
this evening. She was proud they were coming, the Judge 
claimed, she was handing it to herself, knowing that she 
still went strong in spite of her years. 

At eight they arrived, three young gentlemen, all in 
evening clothes. Miss Elliot was nice to them, and every¬ 
thing became very jolly, all of a sudden. Landers brought 
in cocktails and terrible stuff on little crackers, very nasty, 
very fishy tasting. They drank a lot, but they didn’t get 
drunk, nothing rowdy at table. Nor after dinner either, 
although they had more drinks out of little thimble glasses. 
They certainly could carry their loads better than Ned 
Doggett. Miss Elliot was a good boozer, herself, but she 
never showed it. The Judge, however, didn’t take anything 
except White Rock. Mary wondered if he could have 


185 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

diabetes, kidney disease, or something like that. Perhaps, 
that was why they weren’t marrying, he and Miss Elliot. 
The doctors say it isn’t good for a man to marry in his old 
age, unless he is very strong and vital and a recent widower. 
A very prominent gentleman got married, not long ago, 
and died on his honeymoon, a few days after the wedding. 
There was a lot in the papers about it, saying he died be¬ 
cause he was along in years and a widower of many years’ 
standing. In Judge Ramsey’s case, it would be worse, he 
a bachelor. Of course, Miss Elliot might be a safe bride, she 
was past her years of passion, the "it” all dead in her. 

But after dinner, in the library, Mary was not so sure 
as to Miss Elliot’s private nature. Skin and bones, she was 
still in the ring. She had something to offer and she was 
putting her something over, the three men around her, 
fascinated with her. Left out in the cold, Mary and Judge 
Ramsey took themselves to the music room. They had a 
lovely time together. He sang Scotch ballads to her, and 
she sang English ballads to him, both taking turns at the 
piano. The others paid no attention to them. 

At eleven-thirty, Mary felt she should go home. Judge 
Ramsey agreed with her, saying she should keep her fresh¬ 
ness. He also felt it would be as well not to take leave of 
Miss Elliot, that tomorrow would be time enough to make 
her "thank you” to her hostess. 

As Judge Ramsey saw Mary out of the house, she under¬ 
stood it better. There was bridge in the library, all play¬ 
ing as if the world depended on their cards. He hailed a 
taxi, put her inside, said they must have another turn at 
ballads very soon; and how much he had enjoyed the 
evening. Then, he paid the driver, waving his hand to 
Mary as the car started. 


186 


A ROOF 


To think of it, everything straightening itself out, one 
after another, the fibs she had told Lance about herself! 
Mary Boots did have friends in Sutton Place, she did visit 
with them! Such a happy, confident state of mind to go 
to bed on, and Lance, Lance always on her mind and in 
her heart! There was a Boston girl he had an interest in, 
but Lance was not engaged to this Peggy he talked about 
sometimes. Peggy was a tall brunette, he said, abroad at 
present. 

"'But nothing serious about it,” he had said last Sunday; 
"I will not get serious about girls for quite a while yet. I’m 
only twenty now, and a fellow should see a lot of life and 
a lot of girls before he gets serious about them. What 
looks perfectly good at twenty may be altogether a dif¬ 
ferent proposition at thirty. I think, too, a fellow should 
have a few affairs before he gets married.” 

"Oh, please, Lance, don’t talk like that! It’s unworthy 
of you; it’s wicked, it’s sinful!” 

"Cut out the village note, Mary, the small town 
hypocrisy!” 

"I don’t need to be a hypocrite to have a Christian idea 
of sin, Evan Lansing.” 

"We have some Christers at New Haven; and barring 
an odd Catholic here and there I can’t say they are any 
better than the rest of us—I wouldn’t vouch for any of 
them.” 

"I believe in purity,” said Mary. 

"I can’t say that I am egregiously impure,” Lance con¬ 
fessed. "But I’m pinning no decorations on myself. You 
see, Mary, when a fellow reaches six feet two at twenty, 
his body is too busy lengthening out to have his glands 
come in the picture. As I get it, sex conduct is very much 


187 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

a question of gland activity—and glands and the Decalogue 
don’t mix so well. They never have in the past; they never 
will in the future. As for my future sex life, I don’t know. 
Nor do I care very much, either. If I take after my old 
man, I’ll be no puritan, I’m here to tell you. Dad has a 
great gullet for women, large and various.” 

What a frightful way for him to talk! Mary shivered in 
horror and embarrassment. She knew what Lance meant 
by glands, a subject Mrs. Mason had covered in the lecture 
that sent Mary to a revival view of ''Peter Ibbetson” to 
bring romance back to her heart, to put clouds and music 
over the gland part of sex. 

But she also knew that the high-hats were shameless in 
regard to sex matters. Only last week, at a meeting of an 
auxiliary board, didn’t Mrs. Omstead stand up and refuse 
the nomination for the Board’s presidency, saying she was 
going to have a baby? She made the announcement with¬ 
out the least embarrassment and in the presence of three 
gentlemen board members. How queer they were, the 
Socialites and the very common people, so much alike! 
Mrs. Omstead of Park Avenue was no more ashamed of her 
being in the family way than an Ann District woman was 
to drag out her breast and nurse her baby in public. That 
was the way with them. The highest class had nothing 
more to gain; the lowest class had nothing more to lose. 
In the same social boat, the two of them. 

Again and later on, last Sunday, Lance was awful, simply 
shameless. They were seated in his roadster, parked by the 
Sound. In the moonlight, looking at the ocean. He kissed 
Mary; kissed her neck; kissed her mouth—but not a word 
that he loved her. 

The frightful thing he said—after kissing. "I’m handing 


188 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

it to you,” Lance’s exact words, "you’ve got lips with the 
punch of a trip-hammer, you’re a gland stimulant, all 
right! Kissing you is an event in a fellow’s life, something 
to remember.” 

How immodest, how vulgar of Lance, so much of his 
common father in him, so much of high-hats’ commonness. 
That he could say a thing like that, so low and insinuating! 

But so lifting to a girl’s ego, to know that she had it in 
her to affect a man so. Yes, Mary told herself, she must 
have a terrific sex drag—for Lance especially. He would 
never have affairs, he would never wait until he was thirty 
to get married. But let him brag for the present; it would 
be a different story before the year was over. 


Chapter Fourteen 


Ann business as usual, all the mats of the District— 
and Mary’s reports to Miss Sartoni for the confidential files. 
Then, Saturday and Heaven with Lance again. In the 
evening, he was all for "Mary of Scotland,” a stage show on 
the highbrow order. 

Mary Boots thought Mary Stuart was nothing less than 
a fall guy for another queen called Elizabeth, a very foxy 
person. Stuart had no idea of where she was headed for; 
she was no one to put two and two together. The poor 
thing did not have it in her to manage the people she was 
queen of. If self-preservation is the first law of nature, 
the Queen of Scots did not know it. While the costumes 
were gorgeous and Mr. Merivale very handsome, the show 
was a perfect tease. To have to sit still and see that nice 
lady get in bad, time after time, and never able to pull a 
good trick out of her bag! And time after time, Mary of 
Manhattan could see just what trick should have come out 
of the bag of Mary of Scotland. They say it pays to be 


189 


190 A ROOF 

honest. One beautiful queen paid for it; paid with her 
head; after years and years in jail. 

In the foyer they ran into two of Lance’s friends, "Jim” 
and "Skippo.” Socialites are that way—always first names 
to one another. And they called her Mary, a sure sign of 
equality. Then she and Lance were invited to a breakfast 
party the next morning, a celebration over Jim’s success 
in getting a play on Broadway. In a few weeks a big 
producer was putting Jim’s play into rehearsal. 

Skippo’s studio was a large, two-storeyed room with a 
balcony that gave to the living quarters. Quite a crowd 
was assembled when Lance arrived with his girl, and a 
happy girl was Mary. Now he was a real boy friend; he 
was taking her places, showing her off to his high-hat 
friends. Jim’s wife, Twink, was lovely, very friendly to 
Mary, glad to have her. Lance seemed quite thick with 
the Boyds. He had known them when Jim was in New 
Haven at a theatre school up there, a place where writing 
plays is taught. 

A curly-headed fellow cottoned to Mary. His name was 
Fuzzy and he did stage sets. He began to tell her all about 
what he was doing. Mary seemed listening, but she wasn’t 
listening to Fuzzy, never, not when the knock-out of the 
girls present was cottoning to Lance. The knock-out was 
Sylvia, one of those super high-hats, all style and distinc¬ 
tion, wearing a Paris model that must have cost a fortune. 
But she sure was laying for Lance, the way she piled it on, 
telling him he was blunt and forthright, a man after her 
own heart, a natural. Lance told her that she should meet 
the real McCoy, his old man; and, in no time, he was 
talking his father with her. No need to look up forthright 
in the dictionary, not with Lance giving its definition in 


191 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

person, bean-spilling. The proud bean-spiller, Lance, taking 
pride in everything that you’d think he’d be ashamed of! 
But it went over big with Sylvia, even the fact that Lance 
lived in a common neighborhood in Youngstown and 
grew up with mill hands’ kids. 

But, for God’s sake, what had she been thinking of all 
these weeks? Could she, Mary Boots, be the world’s prize 
simp? Oh, the dumbness of her, the lunk-head she was! 
Think of it, covering what she had no need to cover from 
Lance! Why did she get set in the notion to hold back on 
Lance, hold back until she felt she was in strong enough 
with Miss Elliot to bring a gentleman friend in to meet the 
lady in her own house! God, she was dumb! Her bag of 
tricks! She had her tricks, all right, but not enough head 
to know how and when to use them. 

Mary Boots must get busy, get busy at once, get busy, 
this very day, and straighten out every fib she had told 
Lance about herself. Didn’t he come from a bum neigh¬ 
borhood himself, no better than Goodrich Place? Besides, 
wasn’t his Dad a match for Mamma, just as common and 
vulgar? Yes, right now was the time to flash it on Lance, 
the entire picture. 

Mary went into a deep study. The way to begin was to 
josh Lance, funning him about how sure he was of him¬ 
self when he thought he could spot a small town girl when 
he saw her. At this point, Mary would laugh, a good 
laugh. Then, out with it and say she was born and raised 
in New York and could prove it, that she could show him 
her home and her mother if he didn’t believe her. Then, 
another laugh—and the disclosure that she only visited for 
short spells in Sutton Place, staying with her friend, Miss 
Elliot, the whole works at the Goodrich Memorial Annex. 


192 


A ROOF 


So far, so good; but bow about Oklahoma and Papa’s 
oil wells? That could be managed by saying the oil wells 
belonged to Uncle Henry, Papa’s brother. Papa, too, 
needed a lot of explanation. But that could be managed by 
saying that he was a poor father; very no-account, owing 
to his heavy drinking. Sure it would be all right—to say 
that Papa walked out on Mamma two years ago, going to his 
brother in Oklahoma and they were in business together. 
The web of deceit was tangled—but it could be straightened 
out. Certainly it could—wasn’t Mary going to tell Lance 
that she had her occasional doubts of just how well Papa 
might be doing in Oklahoma? Some people were that way, 
and her own father happened to be that kind of a person— 
very unreliable, a big mouth, a show-off. But she had 
stood all of Papa’s didoes she was going to stand—if he 
was doing well in oil, he would have to come across and 
do something for his family. This point must be played 
up strong, she must impress on Lance that she had got a 
lawyer to put the thumbscrews on her own old man in 
Oklahoma. Then, when that much was made clear, Mary 
would wait for several weeks, making out that her lawyer 
was investigating Papa’s big success story. In about three 
weeks, another explanation, saying that Papa was just 
bragging, that the lawyer exploded Papa’s big talk. What 
the lawyer found out was a caution, and not a trace of 
Papa in Oklahoma, nor a trace of Uncle Henry—the two 
of them had disappeared as if the ground opened and 
swallowed them. 

Mamma, too, would be a safe proposition, Mary 
reasoned; yes, Mamma could be relied on to tell Lance 
everything that Mary told her to tell him. Not such a 
poor fibber, Mamma, once she was given the proper cues 


AGAINST THE RAIN 193 

to follow. But Bow unfortunate that Mamma had been 
painted up to Lance as a Virginia lady! Maybe he had 
forgotten that story; but if he hadn’t, Mary could say she 
did not remember telling it; if she did say it, she was josh¬ 
ing, simply trying to put more over on him, a bigger prac¬ 
tical joke, as it were. Could any alibi be slicker? 

Suddenly, the girl was conscious that she sat alone in 
a corner of Skippo’s big studio. Even Fuzzy had left her 
side. She rose and went over to the crowd, to feel herself 
out in the cold. The bunch was talking another language, 
talking things, talking people she didn’t know from Adam. 
Oh, the nerve it took to jump into this mob and not appear 
a prize dud! Lance going over big with the girls, and 
she a flop, a washout! And him to see it, him to see her 
getting nowheres whatever! 

They were serving champagne punch, everybody drink¬ 
ing a lot, everybody talking. Dear Lord, she must snap 
into it, even if it meant taking a second punch, or three 
or four punches! 

The punches turned the trick, all right—a magnificent 
feeling—no longer an outsider, no more a flop, the small 
town article! After all, there is something in being a real 
New Yorker, once you raise your Dutch courage. 

Mary knew she sat at a table. At the table’s head was 
Skippo. Beside her sat Fuzzy, a bit plastered. Lance, not 
plastered, was just across from her, Sylvia next to him. It 
was a long, narrow table when Mary had seated herself— 
a strange table that got wider every minute—and got 
longer also. But Mary was not on the shelf, Fuzzy and the 
fellow on the other side were falling for her, falling like 
lead. Just to show Lance her smoke, she was as nice as pie 
to both of them—all verve, as Miss Trumbell would say. 


194 


A ROOF 


Skippo was standing and giving a toast to Jim Boyd 
and his play, about to go into rehearsal. And the things he 
was saying about it, that the play would shock all the 
church people and have the ministers yelling for the police 
to close the theatre! 

Finally, Skippo got around to the wind-up of his speech. 
"Here’s to old Jimmie,” he said, "James Eggleston Boyd, 
the most impertinent, bawdiest, amoral sun that ever rose 
on Broadway.” He was about to sit down, then remem¬ 
bered he had forgotten something. "Have I told you the 
plot of the play?” he asked the party. 

"Plot, plot, plot,” they yelled back, "give us the plot!” 

"Jim’s play, 'Buttons Down the Back,’ ” Skippo told 
them, "has a cast of six actors, composed of one holy 
Caucasian and five unholy Africans. It has one set, the 
bedchamber of Evadne, a mulatto streetwalker. On stage 
right is Evadne’s unhallowed bed. At the back a wide, 
very wide window. Through the window and over the 
trees of Morningside Park, the audience sees the cathedral 
of St. John the Divine, the poised angel with his trumpet, 
starkly outlined against the sky. The play is oriented along 
the lines of Evadne’s protracted affair with the bishop, the 
one Caucasian in the cast.” 

Mary was on her feet in an instant, her cheeks red, her 
eyes flashing. "You mean it’s the bishop at the cathedral?” 
she asked Skippo. 

Skippo said it was. 

"The police won’t have to close that show,” Mary an¬ 
nounced to the table in all sincerity. "That show is bound 
to be a flop. It can’t be a success, it is simply too ridic¬ 
ulous. Now I’m asking you, who is going to swallow such 
a scandal on Bishop Manning?” 


195 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

The table rocked with laughter. Mary was glad to see 
they got her viewpoint—a reasonable bunch, once reason 
was pointed out to them. Sure, they all got her slant, sure 
they were howling at the screwy ridiculousness of Jim’s 
play. 

"Another thing I want to know,” Mary asked, still 
standing; "tell me, why is it called 'Buttons Down the 
Back’?” 

"Because,” Skippo answered, "the bishop’s waistcoast 
frequently occupies the back of a chair in full view of the 
audience.” 

"And what has that to do with it?” 

"Because clergymen button their vests down the back.” 

"No, they don’t,” declared Mary; "they button their 
vests on the left side, from under the armhole.” 

The table did not rock now, it reeled. Mary sat down 
satisfied—she had shown them that there was one Episco¬ 
palian in the world who would not sit quiet and let dirt 
be thrown at her bishop. 

But the nerve of Fuzzy, his low insinuation, the things 
he asked her about how come her intimate knowledge of 
reverend gentlemen. Others joined in, all much along the 
same line. It was terrible, just like she had seen clergymen 
disrobe in her presence and to no good purpose. They said 
nothing outright, but it all pointed to low suspicions that 
she had been sleeping with ministers. This would never do, 
never whatever. Time to stand up and tell the flat-heads 
that she had helped the choir mother and had seen the 
Vicar’s vest hanging on a hook in the robing room at the 
Chapel. 

As Mary rose to her feet, Lance shoved a piece of paper 
across the table to her. "You’ve made a big hit,” she read 


196 


A ROOF 


the pencilled warning; “but this bunch doesn’t know you 
are a small town girl and not able to carry your likker. 
You’re half lit and pipe down. No more likker.” 

Mary sat down. Mary subsided. Mary put two and two 
together. 

But the happy breakfast had an unhappy ending, all so 
unexpected. In the midst of the jollifications, Jim was 
called to the phone and soon came back with the sad 
news. His agent had just called him, Jim said, and the 
producer had called off the show’s rehearsal—the play had 
to be rewritten, it had to go into the hands of a first class 
play doctor. 

But Twink, Jim’s wife, was the game one. They must 
all go to her place, she said, the day’s second party, a con¬ 
dolence party. Then, a scamper to get to the Boyds’ 
country place in Connecticut. In the general mix-up, Mary 
found herself in an old Ford coupe with Fuzzy—and a 
fleeting glimpse of Lance as he rode off with Sylvia beside 
him. 

The Boyds had a palace in the woods at the edge of a 
little lake—they had an indoor swimming pool as well. 
The first thing on the program was water polo, and Twink 
got out enough swimming togs for a regiment. They all 
went in, all but Mary. She better had keep out of swimming 
togs—short legs and bumpy knees are nothing for a girl 
to advertise on herself. At the side of the pool Mary sat 
and cautioned her immortal soul against the sin of envy, 
so disastrous to one’s beautiful expression—and expression 
such a big point in facial beauty. But so hard to preserve 
a true Christian spirit and see those girls with their long 
straight legs—the legs she would have had but for the lack 
of milk and oranges in her early kid days. And their neat 


AGAINST THE RAIN 197 

little breasts, their high, tight fannies! How that must 
get a man, having the right goods to put into a bathing 
suit! But never for her, never for Mary Boots! She never 
exercised when a kid, she never played tennis—no, she had 
to hurry from school to sew fasteners on garters, piece 
work Mamma used to take home to do when she got back 
from her job, a hotel kitchen helper in those days. And 
the low-hung fanny it put on her, always stuck in a chair 
at a table, heaped high with rush work to be finished on 
time so that Mamma could keep her promise to the boss at 
the garter factory! They were Boyds’ Safety Garters, a 
gents’ article. Wouldn’t it be curious if Jim was his son? 
The homework was certainly poor pay, something very 
crooked in the bargain—Mamma always fibbed and hid 
the garters when the Labor Inspectors came on their tene¬ 
ment home tours of inspection. If she told the truth, she 
well knew she’d get nothing more from the boss at the 
factory. Mary had to fib, too, when a pussyfoot from the 
Child Labor Committee came around snooping, trying to 
find out if any kids were doing piecework in the home. 

After a great time at water polo, everybody dressed and 
went into the big living room for hot buttered rum, a 
kind of spiced toddy. The drinking was moderate, no 
sousing. Everybody’s conduct was perfectly proper—no 
high jinks, none of the low-downs the movies give on so¬ 
ciety people and their carryings-on in the privacy of their 
homes. 

At luncheon, the bunch made great ado over Twink’s 
dog-plates of wild rice with mushrooms and sweetbreads, 
cooked in sherry. The eats were all right, but Mary was 
more concerned with the drinks, a white wine. As Fuzzy 
had brought her to Boyds’, how did she know but he 


198 


A ROOF 


might insist on taking her home? How did she know but 
that Lance might take Sylvia home? Never could that 
happen, not today, today of all days, when she had so many 
explanations to make, all her fibs to straighten out with 
Lance on the drive home. So, as Fuzzy sat by Mary, she 
let him empty her wineglass along with his own—she even 
dared him to show how much he could carry. And he fell 
for it, how he soused, getting too plastered to drive a car. 

After lunch, Skippo, who was an artist, wanted to make 
a pencil sketch of Mary’s head, he said her cheeks intrigued 
him, the way they pointed down to her chin. While Skippo 
sketched, the bunch talked, mostly whirligig conversation, 
jumping from one subject to another until they got around 
to the Depression. You never heard such poor-mouths in 
all your life, they might have been spending their last 
pennies and go on Home Relief tomorrow. Mary, however, 
saw no signs of poverty. The yard outside was packed with 
high-priced cars, Fuzzy’s old coupe the only can in the 
picture. 

“If things go on like this much longer,” said Jim Boyd, 
"I’ll have to close the works down, send Twink home to her 
mother, and see if I can’t get into a C.C.C. camp.” 

"What’s your line?” asked Fuzzy. 

"Garters,” said Jim, "the same’s you’re wearing, Boyds’ 
Safety Garters.” 

Just as Mary had suspected—Jim was the old man’s 
son! No wonder he could have an indoor swimming pool 
that Mary Boots couldn’t swim in, her fanny too low-hung 
from sitting up for half the night, sewing fasteners on 
Boyds’ Safety Garters! 

Sylvia wore a platinum bracelet set in big diamonds, 
but she seemed full of Stan Hayden’s ideas, and she hoped 


199 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

every plant would close down and the whole system crack 
up, she was a Red and didn’t care who knew it. 

Now, that the dynamite was set off, Mary looked for 
the explosion. But no explosion followed, nobody seemed 
to care a fig, one way or the other, about Sylvia’s Red 
politics. In a minute, they were hopping around at various 
topics, this, that, and the other. Skippo, who had just re¬ 
turned from six months in Russia, was talking big for the 
Soviet, the wonderful things it was doing for the arts. 
Mary looked from face to face—not an angry glance 
turned on Skippo. How different from a gathering in the 
Neighborhood—and the row that would have followed 
such a topic! If the show-down with the Reds ever does 
come, she thought, it will be a battle of the common 
people among themselves—this bunch, and bunches like 
them, would be out of it, they had no fight in them. 

When Skippo finished his study of her head, Mary 
flushed, angry, indignant. 

"Don’t you like it?” he asked. 

"Like that crazy thing?” she came back. "It’s awful! 
It may be a portrait, but it’s certainly not mine.” 

He laughed, telling her it was a surrealistic study. 

"Why can’t you draw what you’re looking at?” Mary de¬ 
manded. 

"What do you think I am, a camera?” 

"At least a camera takes a likeness!” 

"Sure it does—and that’s what I want to get away from.” 

"Then, you admit this is not my likeness?” 

"I didn’t intend to make your likeness.” 

"What was your intention?” 

"To get you, not your likeness.” 


200 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

“I think you’re cuckoo,” Mary told Skippo; "I know art, 
I’ve studied art appreciation.” 

"Sure, Mary knows art,” said Lance, "good, standard 
art as they still teach it in Alda Crossing, Oklahoma.” At 
that, he took her arm and said he must be going, that he 
had some work to finish, before tomorrow morning. 

"Look here, Lance,” Fuzzy cut in, "I’m taking care of 
Mary, I’m taking her home.” 

"You couldn’t take care of a grasshopper, Fuzz, you’re 
too plastered. Come along, Mary, we’re on our way.” 

In the roadster, outside, there sat Sylvia in the middle 
of the seat. She begged Lance to take her to New York, 
it was so important, she claimed, a business appointment 
she had made for this very evening—she must get back 
at once. 

Lance did not like it. But what could he do—none of 
the others were quitting the party as yet. 

And no explanations to Lance, not with a third party 
present. Nor was this all of the bitter disappointment— 
Lance could not make it for the next week-end because he 
had some work he had to catch up on. 


Chapter Fifteen 


At the Ann, Stanley Hayden wasn’t taken in the light 
way the Mem Neighbors took him, a combination of joke, 
wickedness, and un-Americanism. To begin with, Stan 
had just come out with a book with an atheist title: "What 
Price God.” The Ann big-shots took the book seriously and 
they took Stan Hayden seriously. They said the book was 
significant—a great word with social workers, significant . 
To think of it, it was a feather in a girl’s cap to have had 
Stan crazy over her, to have him wanting to marry her! 
And how Mary wanted to parade her feather, to let them 
all know she had turned him down! But she couldn’t do 
it, it just wasn’t in her to do something that lacking in 
honorable conduct. So far as she was concerned, Stanley 
had been honorable with her; and, although he was the 
enemy of her religion and country, still in a personal way, 
she must play the rules of the game as Stan had played them 
in their personal relations. But still, how much impressed 
they would be if they knew that Mary Boots had it in her 

201 


202 


A ROOF 


to land Stanley, to have him crazy to marry her, and he 
not believing in marriage! What an appeal she must have, 
an appeal that could make a Red atheist go against his 
strongest principles. And no one to know it! 

A Red publishing house had published the book, and 
people were buying it, paying two dollars for it. Miss 
Elliot had a copy, Mr. Morrissey had a copy—and they 
both read "What Price God” and talked about it, always 
saying it was significant. Stan’s picture was on the front 
page, his hair rumpled; he wore an open-necked, sleeveless 
shirt; a pipe in his hand, held by the bowl. He had posed 
seated on a box with his mutt dog, Ginger, between his 
knees. Just for the gesture of it, Stan would have a mutt, 
the most down-dog possible. The mutt between his knees 
had one ear cocked and eyes straight at the camera; and, 
just to show he wasn’t personally interested in his own 
photograph, Stan was looking at the dog, not at the camera. 
Under the picture was printed, "Ginger and the Author” 
—Stanley’s idea of modesty, to mention the dog first. 

But no evidence of modesty in the book—that was all 
Stanley Hayden. After he gave a picture of what he came 
from, Stan went into his own mind as a kid in the Mem 
Neighborhood and a pupil at St. Kevins’ parochial school. 
He got all that over, how he wondered about things and 
how he asked questions. He told about the questions he 
asked his parents, the questions he asked his nun teachers, 
the questions he asked the priests, all sorts of questions 
about everything in the world. Through all this, he wanted 
to carry the impression that he was a mighty smart kid, 
so smart that he knew, even then, that he was not getting 
the right answers. 

Mary read the first chapter and the first chapter was 


203 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

quite sufficient—simply vulgar, indecent, and blasphemous. 

"I was born and reared to adolescence in the Matriarchy,” 
the chapter began, "I am the product of a hotbed of sex 
antagonism. In my early childhood, a notorious feeder to 
the white slave trade (under the guise of a ten-cent store 
magnate), founded and endowed a Memorial across the 
street from my tenement home. Under the cloak of 
philanthropy, this Memorial got under way to spread cul¬ 
ture in an unplowed field. The women fell for it, forming 
into blocs as they fell. Ergo, they were soon organized, 
and the gals weren’t long in realizing the power of or¬ 
ganization. This could have led to something worth while, 
but other forces were at work, the Church and the Culture- 
spreader. Very much church, pious Christians, pious Jews, 
praying for the continued solvency of the United Can 
Company, their Rock of Peter, their Rod of Moses, solid 
as the economic terrain on which both Rock and Rod 
rested. The Culture-spreader had raised the neighbors to 
a lower middle class smugness. 

"Men count for little in the Matriarchy; are of so little 
consequence that a brother may be sent to Elmira, the 
father to Sing Sing without a single blot on the family 
escutcheon. The family’s social status rests solely on the 
mother’s restriction of her own sex-life and natural im¬ 
pulses: to wit, The Bed, the Church’s measure of all morals, 
all ethics. Clerics have always been bed-minded, and 
women cleric led. Woe betide the widow or deserted wife 
suspected of, or caught in, adultery! A hundred women’s 
hands, free of her sin, are there to stone her out of the 
Matriarchy. 

"In contradiction to popular forms of pruriency, the 
clerical bed-mindedness seems little concerned with illicit 


204 


A ROOF 


love. The Church is never so happily engaged as when 
it is interfering with the biology of the married; sniffing 
the marriage couch for germicides, and on the lookout for 
contraceptives. With its imposed childbearing, endless 
childbearing, the Church has de-sexed its women, left 
them passionless. Endless gestation, parturition, lactation 
are all these women know of sex, none of its delight—and 
fear , always FEAR to chill them at the approach of an 
amorous husband who becomes an object of dread and 
apprehension and is finally hated. Hence, sex antagonism 
which usually appears after the birth of the fourth or fifth 
child. But the woman continues on, cleric led, her mar¬ 
riage bed an altar of torture and sacrifice.” 

Dear old Grandma Dorgan got hold of the book, she 
found it in Tom Dorgan’s room—Tom used to go to school 
with Stanley. And didn’t Tom hear from Grandma for 
bringing such impiety into the house! Grandma, however, 
read the book—she felt it was her duty, now that Tom 
had read it, and she should know exactly what her grandson 
had been exposed to and how many wrong ideas should be 
argued out of the boy’s head. 

"The blackguard craziness of that Hayden boy!” said 
Grandma to Mrs. Lantey in Mary’s hearing. 

"I think Stanley is right on one point, howsoever,” Mrs. 
Lantey expressed herself; "you know, Grandma, none of 
us ladies here in the Neighborhood have the feeling that 
our menfolks can disgrace the family.” 

"God be thanked, they can’t, Mrs. Lantey; and, if a son 
could do that same, how could that decent woman, Johanna 
Hayden, be able to hold up her head in the Neighborhood 
where we all know Stanley is her son?” 

"Poor frail men,” sighed the other woman, "why expect 


205 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

too much from them? I got a boy in Elmira. Nothing for 
us women to do but to love our menfolks and forgive 
them.” 

"Yes, Mrs. Lantey, but daughters are different; no hell 
too hot for the mother who would bring disgrace on them. 
It’s stoned she should be, for what can be expected of 
young girls if their mothers don’t set them a good ex¬ 
ample?” 

Mary agreed with Grandma and Mrs. Lantey, thankful 
she had a good mother, no one who would ever put dis¬ 
grace on her or on little Marge and Connie. Freddy on 
a three year stretch in Elmira didn’t count—Fred was a 
boy, not family. 

A few days more, and "What Price God” in cheap paper 
cover copies was selling from the sort of news stands that 
carry "The Daily Worker” in the English edition. It was 
these poor districts which Stanley wanted to reach, Mary 
knew, and she rejoiced to see that the only people who 
bought the book were those who already believed in it. 
Decent Christians and decent Jews all despised it. How 
mad Stan must be, Stan always claiming that religion was 
an insanity in the tenements of the big cities, just as it was 
in the Bible Belt of the South and the Middle West. It was 
Stan who was insane and couldn’t get it through his screwy 
head that God was the poor people’s best friend and helper. 
Certainly lots and lots of tenement people were religious 
and the comfort that it was to them! 

But Stan got what was coming to him a few nights later, 
on his way to drop in and see his mother. Jim McCaffrey 
at 15 Goodrich Place made for him at first sight and 
mopped the sidewalk with him. Jim was furious at the 


20 6 


A ROOF 


white slave crack at the Goodrich Stores. Two of Jim’s 
sisters were behind Goodrich counters and no purer girls 
never lived on this earth than Molly and Helen McCaffrey. 
The Red atheist deserved what he got. Didn’t Mary know 
lots of Goodrich salesgirls and not a single tart in the 
whole bunch? The lowness of the Reds, the vile lies of 
them! Nothing on their minds but sex! Nothing in their 
hearts but hatred of God and religion! And for Miss Elliot 
to be taken in by "What Price God”! What could be the 
matter with her—she such a wealthy person and Stan 
plotting, every minute, to pluck the wealthy classes! And 
why shouldn’t the Neighborhood pray for the solvency of 
the United Can Company—didn’t the neighbors have the 
sense to know where their best bread came from? 

The talk at Thursday’s luncheon had been back to 
normal again, none of the workers mentioning "What 
Price God.” After luncheon, Miss Elliot had the better 
housing bee buzzing in her bonnet again, nothing on her 
mind but to get the Palermo Flats torn down to make 
place for a row of model tenements. There seemed to be a 
fierce fight on over that. Mr. Diglio, the same dirty politi¬ 
cian who owned that hell-hole, "Paradise Hours,” also owned 
the Palermo Flats, the worst tenement in Greater New 
York. Miss Elliot said Mr. Diglio preferred to have his 
houses fall down of themselves, which they would in time 
as he never put a cent into their upkeep. Miss Elliot was 
certainly out for the goods on Mr. Diglio, who was very 
popular in the Ann District, but in a big fight at present 
with the Mayor and the Housing Commissioner, who had 
no use for him on account of his tenements. But Diglio 
would be a hard man to buck, as Mary well knew, the 
District people so strong for him. He gave them swell 


207 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

outings every summer, even chartering a steamboat to 
take them to Coney Island. He was good, too, for Home 
Relief, always using his drag to get it for his tenants. 

So they started out gunning for Mr. Diglio—Miss Elliot, 
Mary, and a photographer. 

Such a crowd in front of the Palermo Flats, enough to 
make a body think a murder had been committed, Mary 
thought, to herself. Cops on the job, managing a mob of 
people. It must be something very out of the ordinary 
with a newsreel car to take pictures! 

But what do you suppose it was? Why, you never 
would have guessed it—nothing but the fact that Al 
Twady’s wife had triplets yesterday, three boys, all living. 
Mary was disgusted—the Twady family used to live in the 
Mem Neighborhood until the Neighbors got rid of them. 
Al was the kind of a half idiot called "mentally defective” 
by the Ann workers, and very dangerous. 

Miss Elliot had no trouble in getting through the crowd, 
because cops always made a lane for social workers. By 
the basement door where the Twadys lived two trained 
nurses held the babies for the newsreel cameraman. 
Wouldn’t that be a Twady, having the babies at home, 
instead of going to a hospital and saving the visiting nurses 
for more deserving patients! What a time they must have 
had, cleaning the knee-deep filth of the Twady flat to 
make it sanitary for the triplets! Mr. Diglio giving Al 
cigars to pass around to the crowd and the old woman, 
Al’s mother, mad as blazes because the cameraman didn’t 
want her picture. Wouldn’t she be the lovely picture, her 
face not washed in a week, nor her hair combed either. 
Now, they were taking Mr. Diglio’s picture handing Al a 
ten dollar bill for each baby. And, Mr. Diglio talking into 


208 


A ROOF 


the newsreel mike, telling the world that he wanted quints 
in his ward, the same as they had in Canada! When they 
came, he said, he’d give the father ten thousand dollars. The 
crowd cheered and cheered, thinking what a swell guy the 
greasy Wop politician was! 

In the Neighborhood, they used to say that old Mrs. 
Twady had twenty kids herself but, being off in the upper 
story, the same as Al, her babies all died of neglect, only 
the two youngest, Al and Pouchy, his sister, living. But 
they wouldn’t have lived if it hadn’t been for the visiting 
nurses getting started in the Neighborhood by the time 
they were born. The kids hanging around old Mrs. Twady 
were Pouchy’s—one, a Chinee or Filipino. Pouchy was on 
the Island at present—every now and then, she was 
pinched and sent up for streetwalking. Before they moved 
to the Ann District, Mrs. Cromwell and the S.P.C.C. tried 
to get the Twady kids committed as neglected children 
in immoral surroundings. But idiot though she was, 
Pouchy got her a lawyer to fight it, a young shyster, crazy 
to make a reputation for himself. She won—Mary couldn’t 
recall exactly why; probably it was un-American, or against 
the Constitution, or one or another of those cock-eyed 
reasons that stops the law from doing the right thing. 

After taking in the situation, but saying nothing, Miss 
Elliot went down to investigate the basement, to get photo¬ 
graphs of the condition of the halls and the W.C.’s. It was 
dark, messy, and too dirty for words. And the stink—no, 
stench,—Mary corrected herself—the stench was terrible, 
strong enough to knock you down in your tracks. 

The photographer began to talk, telling Miss Elliot why 
he believed in sterilization of the unfit. At that, she came 
down on the man something dreadful, telling him he was 



209 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

paid for his pictures, not his opinions. After blessing out 
the photographer, Miss Elliot turned on Mary. “And, 
now,” she snapped, “I suppose you’re all ready to tell me 
what you think about the Twadys?” 

“No, Miss Elliot, it isn’t my intention to say.” 

“Very well,” she said, a little better-natured; “never 
irritate me with the obvious—it’s too exasperating.” 

But back at the Ann, an hour later, Miss Elliot got into 
a fierce fight with Mr. Morrissey because he didn’t believe 
Al nor any human being should be sterilized because he 
was afraid it would be a dangerous weapon to put into the 
hands of politicians. From how Mr. Morrissey talked, one 
would think when the Democrats got into power, they 
would sterilize all the Republicans, or vice versa, according 
to the last election. 

And how they rowed, Miss Elliot and Mr. Morrissey, call¬ 
ing each other idiots, imbeciles, medieval hang-overs, 
fanatics, Hitlers, any number of such things. He called 
her a pacifist. She thanked God that she was and said she 
wouldn’t fight, even if the country was invaded. Then, 
it got positively fierce when Mr. Morrissey said he believed 
in military training in the schools. 

Finally, Miss Elliot told him he was a goddamned fool 
and to get out of her office. Mr. Morrissey beat it; but the 
next hour, you should have seen them, Miss Elliot taking 
Mr. Morrissey home with her to dinner. What kind of a 
nut was she, anyhow? Could Miss Elliot be crazy? 

What happened on Saturday showed the cock-eyed way 
that dear darling lady could waste her money. The previous 
Thursday, Joe Klinsky, one of the Ann district punks, was 
executed at Sing Sing, and what did Miss Elliot do but give 
Mrs. Klinsky, his mother, five hundred dollars, right out 


210 


A ROOF 


of her pocket, for a first class coffin and funeral. Nor 
were she and Mary taking Saturday off, either. Oh, no, 
they must be with Mrs. Klinsky today. When Mr. Mor¬ 
rissey heard of this nonsense, he raised hell with Miss 
Elliot, the first thing Saturday morning. Awful to hear 
them, they weren’t above swearing at each other—and she 
in the Social Register and he a graduate of Cornell! 
Among the things he called her was a maudlin lousy senti¬ 
mentalist. Mary would look maudlin up in the dictionary 
later, quite sure the definition would shock her. But Miss 
Elliot didn’t back down one inch, she stood her ground, 
claiming the grandeur of Joe’s funeral meant all the world 
to Mrs. Klinsky and why shouldn’t the poor wretch have 
one last indulgence, the only thing life could give her now? 
Then she told Mary to get into her things—they were go¬ 
ing to the Klinskys. She had to keep an eye on that crook, 
Mike Veronasac, the undertaker, and see he provided all 
the splendor of a five hundred dollar funeral. They walked 
out of the office, Mr. Morrissey still fussing, saying the 
Ann would be terribly criticized by Christopher Guild as 
the Guild had been trying for years to discourage extrava¬ 
gant funerals and keep the living from being sacrificed to 
the dead. Mary was inclined to Mr. Morrissey’s opinion, 
God knows she had seen enough of the undertaker’s 
getting the money that should have been spent at the 
grocer’s, funerals putting families in the hole for years to 
come. 

Like the Twadys, Mrs. Klinsky lived in the Palermo 
Flats—on Home Relief, like all Mr. Diglio’s tenants. Quite 
a crowd was gathering in front, waiting to see Joe’s coffin 
taken from the hearse when it arrived. One of the cops, 
keeping the mob in order, got Miss Elliot and Mary through 


AGAINST THE RAIN 211 

the pack of excited people. On the street door was a big 
wreath of ferns and Bermuda lilies, tied with an immense 
bow of purple rayon. From the newel posts and up the 
three flights of stairs, the balustrades were hung with a 
yard wide stretch of rayon, a continuous drapery of 
purple, cheap, stiff, shiny, dirty. On the top floor, the 
Klinsky flat door had another wreath, similar to the one 
downstairs. The walls of the two-room flat were hung 
with purple rayon from ceiling to floor. The stuff was also 
wrapped around the chairs and furniture. In the front 
room on five purple shrouded stools, supplied by Mr. 
Veronasac, sat Mrs. Klinsky and four female relatives. 
They wore hired mourning dresses, black and dingy. 

The din coming up from the street below told its own 
story—the hearse was passing through the crowd, ter¬ 
ribly excited now, getting harder for the cops to manage. 
The four black figures rose with Mrs. Klinsky, their veils 
sweeping the floor as they got to their feet—their arms, 
their bodies swaying. And crying from their throats, 
strange sounds, more crooning than sobbing. Then the 
tramp on the rickety stairs, heavy steps, heavier for the 
coffin they carried. If the rotten, shaky timbers would only 
hold up against the weight— Mary held her breath, ex¬ 
pecting a crash at any moment. Thank God, the two lower 
flights had been negotiated—they were on the third now! 
The women had stopped moaning, their eyes in wild stare 
on the door from the hall. The door opened, the men 
came in with the coffin, followed by Father Kappec, an old 
man, thin as a pole in his black cassock. 

With a low moaning cry, Mrs. Klinsky threw herself 
on the coffin, circling it with her long skinny arms, her 
work crippled fingers clutching at its sides. What hands 


212 


A ROOF 


they were after a lifetime at mop and scrub brush, suds 
sogged, soap eaten! Now she seemed speaking to Joe, 
sobbing something in Lithuanian, stroking the end of the 
sealed coffin around his head. But quite calm, no hysterics. 
After a long time, or what seemed a long time to Mary, 
Mrs. Klinsky got to her feet and began to speak in Eng¬ 
lish. 

“When I lose my good man, Anton, I was young yet,” 
she said; “and I have only six kids, four boys, and two little 
girls who die while they was little girls. I git me job at 
Flavin’s factory, I scrub concrete floor all night. I don’t 
git me no day job. I say *1 stay me home, I keep my eye 
on my kids.’ I been good mudder. You know that, Miss 
Elliot, everybody know it, I been very, very good mudder. 
But my boys, they was bums. Needer me, needer the Ann, 
needer Miss Elliot, needer Fadder Kappec kin do not’inks 
vit my boys. Nobodies kin do not’inks vit my boys. And 
me? I vorry, I vorry—Jesu, Maria, Josef, how I vorry— 
all the times I been vorry for my boys!” 

It was awful to hear her talk, tearing the heart out of 
Mary. A terrible job, being a social worker, seeing suffer¬ 
ing and helpless to do a thing for poor Mrs. Klinsky. 

“Mike, my first boy,” the mother went on, “Mike he 
get shot by the cops after a stick-up. Then I don’t vorry 
no more for Mike, not after the cops croak him. But I got 
plenty odder vorry for me—I vorry for Stefan, I vorry 
for Pete, who was punks already, so like their brudder 
Mike. Purty soon, Stefan and Pete, they get it, the knock¬ 
off—and the cops they say to me that it was hijackers that 
croak my two boys. But after that I don’t vorry no more 
to Stefan and Mike—I vorry for Joey, my baby. Now, 
you see how it happen to Joey. And me? I ain’t vorry no 



213 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

more—not’inks more happen to my Joey. Not’inks happen 
to none my boys, not no more never—it have all happen 
already.” 

Father Kappec, a lovely man, a perfect saint, got down 
on his knees, asking them to pray for Joe’s soul. Such 
consolation in his words, a balm to any bleeding heart that 
was open to God’s mercy. But poor Mrs. Klinsky had no 
heart left in her. 

"No, not me, Fadder,” she said to the old priest, "you 
an’t going put not’inks over on me. It is all lies—God 
an’t so. Not’inks an’t so like you tell me. There an’t no 
God, no heaven, no hell, no purgatory. When my boys is 
dead, they is dead, so like a dog—it is all finish for them, 
for everybodies who is dead already. Dead, that is end of 
everybodies. I an’t going have no more vorry for my boys 
in no purgatory. All lies—not so—they is dead as dogs and 
me, I have no more vorry.” 

Father Kappec began to say the Rosary regardless. But 
Mrs. Klinsky went to the kitchen and began to prepare a 
big pot of coffee, paying no attention to the prayers. Miss 
Elliot motioned Mary to join the others on her knees. 
Then, Mary, hardly believing her own eyes, saw a kneeling 
Miss Elliot take a string of silver and ivory prayer beads 
from her own handbag and join in the responses, crossing 
herself with the Catholics. 

On the way back to the Ann, Miss Elliot said a strange 
thing, she asked Mary if she had a Rosary. 

"Why, no, I haven’t,” stammered Mary, "I’m not a 
Catholic.” 

"Neither am I, but I wouldn’t be without my Rosary. 
There is a wonderful potency behind it, I believe in it.” 

"I am an Episcopalian,” announced Mary. 



214 A ROOF 

"I’m absolutely nothing, not even the Unitarian I was 
reared to be.” 

"But you believe in God, Miss Elliot?” 

"No, not a temporal God. An all-powerful God ruling 
this world? Absurd! Fd as soon subscribe to demonolatry.” 

"But you do believe in something?” 

"Yes, perhaps, the Rosary.” 

What a nut she was! Nothing reasonable about her, 
her ideas all haywire, simply cock-eyed! 

But they didn’t go back to the Ann, although they 
started for it. Miss Elliot suddenly changed her mind, 
saying she had all of Felix Morrissey she could bear for one 
day, that most exasperating person. She hailed a taxi and 
went to Sutton Place with Mary. The house was quite 
warm, but she didn’t fuss Landers over it this time. On 
the contrary, she was very pleasant to the butler, finding 
fault with nothing. Sweet as pie, too, with Grant, sending 
him to Goodrich Place to tell Mrs. Boots to pack up Miss 
Boots’s night things and say not to expect her until Mon¬ 
day. Then she went up to her room, telling Landers to bring 
her a cup of hot milk at one o’clock, as she did not feel equal 
to luncheon. 

Mary wandered back to the music room, where she 
found Judge Ramsey, seated by a window, his eyes on the 
fog lying thick on East River, and here and there, a steam¬ 
boat funnel cutting through the heavy mists on the water. 
From a breakfast tray, the Judge was eating leisurely, his 
mind more on the fog than on his food. Maggie, Miss 
Elliot’s cook, waited on him in person, tickled pink that 
he’d leave his suite in the Hotel Netherlands every morn¬ 
ing, and not touch a bite till he had her cooking. The 
Judge told Mary that restaurant fare could be the death of 


215 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

him, but Maggie understood his diet, and always saw to 
his breakfasts, no matter what time he dropped into Miss 
Elliot’s of a forenoon. Maggie had done very well this 
morning, thought Mary, not a bad noon breakfast on the 
tray—iced grapefruit juice, toasted corn muffins, grilled 
ham, a poached egg, an Idaho baked potato, and camomile 
tea. Judge Ramsey laid great stress on the tea, and the 
fact he could only touch bread made of cornmeal with 
soda and buttermilk raising; and then only when the bread 
had been thoroughly toasted. He was keen to talk about 
his health, or rather his ill-health, and seemed quite proud 
of the very many things that didn’t agree with him. His 
butter Maggie made in a little churn, fresh every morning 
from sweet cream, no salt in it. It was a special cream, 
raw, not pasteurized. 

So Judge Ramsey was another nut, Mary felt; and, 
like as not, Maggie, more than Miss Elliot, was the real 
attraction to Sutton Place—her cooking, however, not 
herself—she was a colored person, very black, very fat. 
But how she doted on Judge Ramsey, simply adoring him! 

Miss Elliot wasn’t upstairs a half hour before she was 
down again, saying they were all going to her place on 
Long Island, starting as soon as Grant returned with 
Mary’s things. Landers brought Mary a luncheon tray. 
Miss Elliot contented herself with two cups of hot milk. 

The trip to Long Island was made in two cars—Miss 
Elliot, the Judge, Mary, and Godiva in the Rolls, Grant 
driving. Godiva was a dog, a very curious animal, an 
English sheepdog, all hair, such long hair. Miss Elliot said 
the Judge had named her, because, like Lady Godiva in 
the story book, her hair covered everything she had. 
Landers drove the second car, a sedan, carrying Maggie, 


216 


A ROOF 


Nancy, and another maid called Alice. The trip was 
very pleasant, no rowing with the chauffeur this time. 
Something queer, too, about Miss Elliot’s rowing, it was 
always with men, never with women; and, as Mary later 
discovered, only with men who came back at her with sharp 
sarcastic replies. From every appearance, sarcastic rowing 
was one of Miss Elliot’s amusements. But so hard to get 
a line on her, Mary thought, she was such a dear, darling, 
nutty lady. 

The Long Island place was wonderful, a kind of a park 
and farm together—greenhouses, all manner of improve¬ 
ments on it, including a dairy with three Guernsey cows 
for Judge Ramsey’s milk and cream, which was sent in to 
Sutton Place every morning. A Swede man with his wife 
and grown son were on the place, living in a house of 
their own—they were the farmers. There was another 
house, a smaller house, for Landers’ Uncle Sandy, the real 
boss on the premises. Everybody called him Uncle Sandy, 
even Miss Elliot. From the verandas of the big house was 
a divine view of the Sound. The big house was very 
pleasant inside, New England Colonial throughout, both 
decorations and furniture. The music room was in an ell 
by itself, especially built to be fireproof on account of 
Judge Ramsey’s valuable collection of rare old musical in¬ 
struments, chiefly bagpipes and harps. Miss Elliot had 
some things of her own there, too, several antique spinets 
and a modern piano. But she hadn’t collected the spinets, 
they had come down to her from her ancestors. Not 
naturally musical, she cared little for any of her instru¬ 
ments. 

Around noon when Miss Elliot had decided to go to the 


217 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

country, she said she must have quiet, get away from 
everything and everybody until Monday. Her idea of 
quiet was peculiar, or else she changed her mind—anyway, 
she had three bridge hounds out for dinner. They were 
gentlemen. One of the gentlemen brought his valuable 
dog with him. He wanted Miss Elliot to see it, to get her 
opinion on its chances in some important dog show soon 
coming off. She knew a lot about dogs—next to bridge, 
they were her hobby. She had a kennel of them somewhere 
on the place. But no person nor animal was allowed near 
the kennels for fear they would carry an infection to the 
dogs. Godiva, however, was immune, she had had all sorts 
of serum treatments against dog diseases. Still, she might 
carry an infection in her hair—the same for the gentle¬ 
man's dog which was turned over to the Swede boy to pro¬ 
tect it from Godiva, a very jealous animal. 

During dinner the four bridge fiends worked up to high 
pitch over a bridge tournament in Asbury Park. From the 
serious way they took it, you’d think all the armies of 
Europe had landed on the New Jersey coast, and every man 
in America was in arms, lining up to face the invaders of 
his country. 

As the salad course came to the table, the Swedes sent 
in word that in spite of all the pains they had taken, Godiva 
got at the visiting dog and tore its ear before they could 
be separated. With the exception of Judge Ramsey, the 
company went into direst mourning because a slit ear 
hurt an animal’s chances in a bench show. A surgeon was 
sent for, as if somebody in the house was taken with ap¬ 
pendicitis. After they came back from seeing the dog, 
you’d think it was a death in the family, the way they 
carried on. Miss Elliot was even sorrier than the dog’s 


218 


A ROOF 


owner. If Godiva had been her daughter and murdered 
the gentleman’s only son in cold blood, she couldn’t have 
felt worse over it. Certainly this was getting a line on 
wealthy people, who, with no real troubles, manage to find 
curious ways to get themselves terribly upset. A dog dis¬ 
qualified for a bench show—my God! How would they 
take being flat broke—with the gas cut off, or being 
handed eviction papers by the landlord? How would they 
howl, if flung out on the sidewalk with their furniture, no 
place to go, no money to go there on? 

The Reds are all for a share-the-wealth program. But 
it sure looked like God had a program of His own in 
operation—a share-the-worry, a share-the-happiness pro¬ 
gram. It certainly seemed to Mary as if nobody was any 
happier than anybody else, and all had trouble in plenty, 
genuine or otherwise, just something no human could 
escape in this world. No more eating, the dinner table 
deserted, the salad course untouched, the dessert course for¬ 
gotten—and weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, 
figuratively speaking. Finally, bridge drew them like a 
magnet to a table—and they drowned their sorrow in cards. 
Judge Ramsey, a fifth wheel, took Mary and they started 
for the music room together. The look of relief on Miss 
Elliot’s face at their going! 

That lady had her own ax to grind, the girl thought, 
there was a reason for bringing Mary Boots to Long 
Island. The Judge had hung on so long that he was like 
an old husband in the house, highly thought of but some¬ 
thing of a bore, his tastes being different from Miss El¬ 
liot’s. He had no interest in bridge and dogs. She didn’t 
care a fig for music. Maybe, that is why gentlemen have 
mistresses like Angelina—they want common, low class 



219 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

women who will look up to them, catering to all their 
hobbies and notions. Miss Elliot might be a nut, but she 
was no fool. First and foremost, she wanted Judge Ramsey 
dangling after her, an old maid’s vanity, proof she was still 
in the ring. Not having patience for his ill-health and diet 
hobby, she had Maggie to take care of that. Now she was 
adding Mary Boots to her staff to solve the music problem. 
Like as not, Miss Elliot had that in mind in the beginning, 
remembering, maybe, that Mary had won first prizes at the 
Mem on her folk song music, the only kind of music the 
Judge cared for. 

But Mary must be wise, Mary cautioned herself—she 
was here to cater, not to perform. Judge Ramsey did not 
want to hear her ballads, he wanted to play his own, feeling 
he had an audience. Entering the music room, he motioned 
the girl to take the piano bench. She shook her head and 
said she’d rather listen than play this evening. 

The Judge played. The Judge sang. It was all the Scotch 
stuff, concerned chiefly with war and slaughter. A curious 
people, the Scotch, thinking themselves a race of conquer¬ 
ing Napoleons. The war nerve and the war brag of them! 
How did they get that way, when the English always licked 
them in battles? And the English ballads so peaceful, 
about love and the beauties of nature—a modest people, 
as Mamma said, licking the whole world and never brag¬ 
ging about it. 

Past midnight before Judge Ramsey got tired of music. 
The bridge hounds still at it in the library—all the maids 
turned in for the night, only Landers on the job now. The 
Judge said he would see to himself, telling the butler to 
look after Mary. Landers had better look after Mary, the 
house so big she had no idea of where to find the room 


220 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 


given to her. But embarrassing, Landers was a man, even 
if he was a butler. And to be shown into a bedroom by a 
man, your bed already turned down, your nighty laid out 
in full view on it! Then of all things, Landers turned 
on the taps of the tub, asking Mary at what temperature 
she bathed! 

"Thank you,” said she, her face as red as fire; "but I 
bathe mornings, not evenings.” 

He showed Mary the bell and again the movies were 
wrong about high-hat living—it was an ordinary push¬ 
button, not the fancy strap they pull to summon servants 
in the pictures. Nor was the bathroom up to the Holly¬ 
wood idea—the tub was not enclosed in glass, nor was it 
shaped differently from the average first class article. The 
bed was not even a tester, not a curtain on it. About the 
only thing the movies had right was the towels, enough laid 
out for the night to do a good sized family for a week or 
two. Another thing the movies never do get right, the way 
they show a poor girl surprised in her first experience in 
wealthy surroundings, her not understanding what it is all 
about. The movies are modest, Mary thought, not giving 
themselves credit for making poor people perfectly fa¬ 
miliar with everything on the face of the earth in all con¬ 
ditions, places, and times since the world began, even 
showing how Nero’s wife bathed herself. Her surprised, 
Mary Boots surprised? What bunk, her only surprise was 
that the movies should fall down so, overdoing the grandeur 
of the high and wealthy! 


Third Book 



Chapter Sixteen 


Good God in heaven—Mamma was going to have a 
baby! 

No doubt about it—it came out in Mamma’s physical 
examination for her policy. The insurance doctor could 
not be mistaken. 

When Sid Silverstein saw the examination report, he 
sent for Mary. "This is bad business,” he said; "very bad 
business, three such nice girls in the family.” He couldn’t 
have been kinder, more sympathetic. 

"And I just getting somewhere, a social worker,” wailed 
Mary; "and, now, this has to happen! It will ruin me for¬ 
ever.” 

"This is no time to bellyache,” Sid shouted her down; 
"that gets you nowhere. Positively, Mary, when you belly¬ 
ache, you’re licked.” 

"Can’t we go to Sammy? Sid, please, Sid, won’t you 
ask Sammy to do something for Mamma?” 

"Jeese, Mary, what could Sammy do for your Mamma?” 

223 


224 A ROOF 

"But he’s such a wonderful lawyer, Sid, the best in New 
York.” 

"What of it?” asked Mr. Silverstein. "Even Sammy 
can’t get an injunction to stop a pregnancy.” 

"But couldn’t Sammy find some way to fix it up to 
make it look like Papa is gone for five years and divorce 
Mamma?” 

"Positively not, Mary, no way to do it, not in New 
York.” 

"But the man who ruined Mamma must marry her.” 

"Such ignorance, Mary, that man is no good, a dumb 
boob, I tell you.” 

"But, suppose it was Mr. Reeder, Sid? He used to act 
like he had a case on Mamma.” 

"No, it ain’t Reeder, Mary; Reeder is too smart to get 
a lady into trouble. The guy in this case is a bonehead.” 

"There’s Sarge Dorgan—he’s always taken notice of 
Mamma.” 

"The Sarge is no boob, neither, Mary.” 

"But, Sid, something’s got to be done. I can’t have my 
future ruined.” 

"Ain’t that what I’m trying to tell you?” 

"But, Sid, can’t you think of something? How will it 
be for me, when Mamma has a baby? And the twins, Sid, 
think of Marge and Connie!” 

"We got to get her out of it, Mary.” 

"How—out of it?” 

"Get her miscarried, the way they always get out of 
that kind of trouble.” 

"But, Sid, that’s awful, next door to murder.” 

"All right, then, Mary. Just an idea to help you.” 


225 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"I guess a lot of nice people do do it though,” a touch 
of compromise in the girl’s tone now. 

"Sure they do,” Sid agreed, "who ever heard of society 
people having bastards? And it ain’t their virtue neither 
—they are like everybody else, only more so. 

"You remember my cousin, Herbie Finckelbaum, Mary, 
and do you know Herbie is now the great Dr. Franklin?” 

"Yes, Sid, the Finckelbaums used to live in the Neighbor¬ 
hood, right across the hall from us.” 

"Good friends, huh?” 

"Oh, yes, Mamma liked them. She always says they 
were good neighbors.” 

Sid reached for the telephone, dialed, asked to speak 
to Dr. Franklin. 

"Is this you, Herbie?” . . . "Sure, Herbie, it’s me, big 
as life and smiling.” . . . "Everybody’s well. And your 
folks?” . . . "Now, Herbie, you listen. You remember 
Mrs. Boots, down in the Neighborhood, the lady across 
the hall from you?” . . . "Yeah, that one. I tell you, 
Herbie, her husband walked out on her, two years ago.” 
. . . "Sure, he was no good, but I don’t need to tell you 
that. Now listen, Herbie, Mrs. Boots is in trouble, about 
two months already. And three such nice girls she got, 
Herbie. You remember Mary, such a good kid and so 
pretty?” . . . "A smart girl, too, Herbie, a credit to the 
Neighborhood. A social worker at the Annex she is. 
Herbie, be class-conscious. Come across for the underdog. 
I want that you should do a favor for an old neighbor.” 
. . . "Yes, operate.” . . . "Sure, it’s safe. Would I ask 
you, if it wasn’t?” 

Sid beamed on Mary as he hung up. "Herbie is doing it, 


226 A ROOF 

not a cent it costs you. That’s Herbie, a heart in him big 
as a whale.” 

"But mightn’t Mamma die, Sid, in the operation? I’ve 
heard they die from it sometimes.” 

"No, not with Herbie. Would he have his swell clientele, 
if he killed them? Think who it is that go to Herbie, the 
great Doctor Franklin, all high-hat ladies, who can afford 
five hundred dollars for the operation.” 

"And none of them ever died?” 

"Never, not one single lady.” 

"But, isn’t there blood-poisoning, things like that, after¬ 
wards?” 

"With the cheap butchers, yes. But Herbie knows what 
he’s doing, And he’s got the best trained nurses taking 
care of his clients.” 

"Will it be a long operation?” 

"No, he is a good man. Herbie’s quick—only fifteen 
or twenty minutes. No ether. He takes no chances, posi¬ 
tive no risks in Herbie’s operation.” 

"What does he give, local?” 

"He gives nothing. But you can trust Herbie—he takes 
no risks on anything.” 

"Will Mamma suffer much?” 

"Sure, she’ll suffer. They all suffer, glad to suffer and 
pay Herbie a half grand for it.” 

When Mary arrived home, Mamma was in the kitchen, 
cooking Mr. Plykas’s breakfast. His night off from the 
hospital, Mr. Plykas was taking a bath. He always dressed 
up when he went to the Bronx to see his sister, the one he 
paid her rent for. He let his womenfolks impose on him— 
he was that kind of a person. In a way Mamma imposed 


227 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

on him—just look at her now, putting evaporated milk 
in his cereal cream. She always did that. If Mr. Plykas 
noticed the difference, he never mentioned it, never a com¬ 
plaint out of him. 

At a quarter to seven, the twins went to the Mem for 
their violin lessons. Mamma was in the living room, talk¬ 
ing with Mr. Plykas. Mary, still in the kitchen, wrestled 
with her problem. Just how should a girl break the news 
to her mother that she knew the mother was ruined? 
Then, what is a mother apt to say when she hears such a 
thing from her daughter? When it’s the other way around, 
the girl always has the comeback of blaming her mother 
for being ruined, claiming she didn’t have the right sort 
of a home, that they had been too strict with her, that 
they drove her to it, all the things that girls say on such 
occasions. Mamma couldn’t have the usual excuses. Mary 
hadn’t been too strict with her. Neither had Mary set 
Mamma a bad example. 

On entering the living room, of all things, there was 
Mamma sitting on the divan crying, and Mr. Plykas with 
his hand on her shoulder! The nerve of a roomer in the 
house, a Greek at that! 

"Mr. Plykas,” snapped Mary, "I thought you were going 
to the Bronx and see your sister this evening?” 

He took the hint and went to his room. 

"Now, Mary dearie, that’s no way to treat Mr. Plykas. 
Aren’t you afraid you might hurt his feelings?” 

"Mamma, I want to talk to you in private. And, first 
and foremost, get it through your head that I know a lot 
now, being a social worker. I know all about sex cases. 
Some women are that way, oversexed, and it may get worse 
with them as they get into their forties. They’re not to 


228 A ROOF 

blame for it—it’s glands, and glands have a lot to do with 
sex.” 

Effie jumped up from the divan, horrified. "So they’re 
learning you that at the Ann, are they,” she cried, "trying 
to ruin your mind with such nasty stuff? You tell them 
for me that you don’t need no sex talk from strangers, that 
you got a mother that told you all that a girl ought to know 
to be able to take care of herself.” 

"I must know about sex from a scientific slant, Mamma. 
It’s a part of my social training.” 

"Who’s been telling you such stuff, not this Miss Elliot, 
is it?” 

"No, it’s Mrs. Mason that gives us that part of our 
social training.” 

"If it wouldn’t cost you your job, Mary Boots, I’d give 
that woman a piece of my mind, her talking such things 
to an innocent young girl.” 

"Listen to sense, Mamma, and be thankful that I know 
so much about sex that I’m not blaming you for your con¬ 
dition. I’m not going to say an unkind word to you, 
Mamma—it’s the fault of your glands and approaching 
your climacteric period, the change of life, you call it.” 

"Mary, what you mean by my condition, what are you 
talking about?” 

"You know what I mean, Mamma, you know your 
condition. And I know it and you must let me help you 
get out of it for the good of the family.” 

Just as Mary knew it would be—hysterics, something 
awful—Mamma running around the room crazy, yelling 
it was a lie, that somebody was spreading lies about her 
and her own daughter believed it on her own mother. 
Not listening to anything said to her, only her yelling above 



AGAINST THE RAIN 229 

Mary’s insistence that the insurance doctor could not be 
mistaken. 

"It’s a dirty lie, a lie on me!” the woman kept it up in 
one shriek after another. 

Mary waited—ruined girls acted this way at first— 
she had seen it in the District, a girl denying her condition 
to Miss Elliot when she stuck out in front like a water¬ 
melon. Mrs. Mason claimed that was the difficult thing 
about unmarried pregnancy cases, how hard it was to get 
a girl to admit it. 

"Mrs. Boots, don’t,” Mr. Plykas’s voice was heard in 
the din, "please don’t, Mrs. Boots, the baby is in you. And 
it will come out and be here and no lie can help it.” 

"Get back to your room, Mr. Plykas, mind your own 
business!” yelled Mary. 

"But it is my business, Miss Boots. My fault—I am the 
baby’s papa.” 

Mary went into a fury on the instant. She turned on 
Effie, one vituperative volley following another—the low¬ 
ness of her, the commonness of her—how could she sink 
to the level of a Greek man, letting him get the best of 
her? 

"Don’t you dast say that of Mr. Plykas,” defended 
Mrs. Boots; "he’s the finest man that ever lived, the kind¬ 
est, the most thoughtful. He can’t help being a Greek 
and . . .” 

"I ain’t ashamed I’m a Greek,” Mr. Plykas interrupted. 
"The Greeks was the greatest people ever in the world, it 
was them that civilized the world.” 

"That’s so, Mary,” Mrs. Boots took the affirmative; 
"God’s truth, every word Mr. Plykas is telling you, and 
he’s got a book as proves it. Mr. Plykas, go get your book, 


230 A ROOF 

go show Mary what a great people the Greeks was, all 
they done for civilization.” 

"I don’t care for no book,” said Mary hotly; "or if I 
need a book to know about the Greeks, all I got to do is 
look in the city directory, and see by their names how 
many Greeks is shoe shiners and all manner of low occupa¬ 
tions.” 

She continued to express her feelings, outraged that 
her own mother, an Englishwoman, a naturalized Ameri¬ 
can, the president of the Women’s Club, could so de¬ 
mean herself. At the same time, Mrs. Boots expressed her 
feelings, Mr. Plykas expressed his own. With three excited 
voices at high pitch, no one knew what the other two were 
saying in the confusion of sound. Finally, a bell’s metal¬ 
lic resonance asserted itself through the vibration of mere 
vocal chords—a caller, somebody was at the door. The trio 
came to instant attention, a front of respectability to the 
outside world. Mr. Plykas went to his room, where a 
roomer should be—quiet, unobtrusive. 

Mrs. Boots went to the door, and admitted a young 
man who introduced himself as Mr. Remington, calling to 
see Miss Boots, he said. But as soon as he was in the living 
room, he handed Mary a bill. It was the same old claim, 
long in the hands of the Stacey Collection Agency. For 
the last two years, how Stacey had pestered the family 
over the topcoat, the suit, the hat that Billy Boots bought 
from an installment clothier, the outfit he wore when he 
disappeared, probably bought for just that purpose. 

"Miss Boots,” announced Mr. Remington, "you have a 
very responsible position now, and I know you would not 
wish this matter brought to the notice of your employ- 


231 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

The simp, not to know that the Mem and the Ann were 
just waiting their chance to get the goods on this bull¬ 
dozing of poor folks over money not legally due from 
them! 

"Make tracks,” Mary told the creature, "clear out of 
here!” 

"I’ll not leave this room,” said Mr. Remington; "I’ll 
stay right here until you will be agreeable to make some 
arrangement to meet this liability.” 

"Looky here, young man,” Mrs. Boots took hold of the 
situation; "I’m English and my home is my castle. I got 
a big saucepan of water boiling in my kitchen. I can 
throw hot water all around my home, just as it pleases me 
to. If anybody happens to be in the way of the water, that’s 
their own lookout.” 

Mr. Remington hurried to the outside hall and stood 
there, bold as brass. He said he had been threatened with 
bodily injury, and would have recourse to the law. 

"I’ll law you on it,” Mrs. Boots told him; "and you 
ever come in my home again and pester my daughter, 
you’re going find out what kind of a place you’ve butted 
into.” 

Mrs. Boots watched Mr. Remington turn from her fear¬ 
some presence and descend the stairs in silence. The enemy 
from without left tranquillity and concord behind him, a 
domestic unit, federated against the world. Mr. Plykas 
emerged from his room to face Mary’s not unfriendly eyes. 
After all, the girl felt, he had his good points, a man of 
his word and honor, more than willing to marry Mamma. 
Besides, he was steady, highly thought of, not a man in 
the Neighborhood more respected by everybody. Dr. 
Franklin would take care of Mamma’s trouble. In three 


232 A ROOF 

years, Mr. Plykas would marry her, not a bad arrangement 
at all. 

A little friendly talk, the three together. Over and 
over, Mr. Plykas assured Mary of his high regard for Mrs. 
Boots, his unswerving determination to marry her the 
moment she was a free woman. He spoke of her, he ad¬ 
dressed her, as Mrs. Boots. In return Mrs. Boots addressed 
the father of her unborn child as Mr. Plykas. The in¬ 
congruity of such formality with such intimacy made no 
impression on the girl. No neighbor who was anybody in 
the Neighborhood would intentionally omit Mister or 
Missis in addressing another neighbor. The very punc¬ 
tilious, as in Mrs. Meehan’s instance, observed this formal¬ 
ity to their husbands in general company. 

At last, when Mr. Plykas left to see his sister, Mary pre¬ 
sented her solution of the problem. 

"You can get miscarried for nothing,” she told the 
mother, "Herbie Finckelbaum is now Dr. Franklin, a 
great surgeon. He aborts all the swells, a millionaire cli¬ 
entele. He charges five hundred dollars for the operation 
but promised Sid to do it on you for nothing, not a cent 
he’s going to charge you.” 

"But, dearie, just as you come in a while ago, Mr. Plykas 
was telling me he wouldn’t listen to me having an opera¬ 
tion. He says he sees no end of them operated women com¬ 
ing into Bellevue in a dying condition from brought on 
miscarriages. He sees them come in screaming in pain, 
and he sees them go out in the dead wagon.” 

"But Dr. Franklin is different, he never loses a pa¬ 
tient.” 

"I don’t know, Mary dearie, but somehow, it’s broke 


233 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

my nerve down, what Mr. Plykas has been telling me, all 
seen with his own eyes.” 

"But, Mamma, it’s all arranged with Dr. Franklin— 
and you’ll be perfectly safe.” 

"Now, listen, Mary dearie, maybe I don’t need to be 
miscarried. Your Papa is laying at the point of death 
liable to go off at any moment.” 

"Where is he, where is he dying?” 

"In a hospital.” 

"Where, Bellevue?” 

"I don’t know yet, but I’m sure I’ll find that out, to¬ 
morrow.” 

Then it came, Mary was informed of Zithero, the 
crystal gazer, who was doing his very best to place the 
hospital and the town where Billy Boots was dying. "It’s 
no trouble for him to get Billy,” the mother explained, 
"but crystals act so tricky, a mystic never sure of when a 
crystal will cloud on him and he can’t tell nothing more 
at that sitting.” 

"What do you pay him for a sitting?” 

"Only a dollar.” 

"How often have you been to him?” 

"Just a couple of times.” Mrs. Boots decided the truth 
would not go over so well. 

"But, Mamma, you’ve had babies, lots of babies before. 
The operation couldn’t be more pain than a baby.” 

"Birth is natural, dearie—it just comes on a woman; but 
the other is different. Oh, dear Lord, me to stay con¬ 
scious and see a kid I used to know, Herbie Finckelbaum, 
coming at me with knives, and me all exposed to him, no 
shame left to me from a boy that I was a friend of his 
mother.” 



A ROOF 


234 

Mamma still had delicate feeling. Poor oversexed 
Mamma, her glands, not her, to blame for the mess she 
was in! So pitiful, how heart-breaking! How she looked, 
so ashamed of herself, glad for the ground to open and 
swallow her, this holy minute! Mary’s arms stretched out. 
Effie rushed to the haven. 

They cried and cried, clinging together in a shame as 
mutual as it was devastating. 

When the twins returned from the Mem, another front 
had to be presented—everything cheerful now and pleas¬ 
ant on the surface. Mary went to her room. God, what a 
face she saw in the mirror! She looked thirty, she was 
fading already! No, no, she must not let herself fade. 
Everything would come out all right for her, as it had 
always come out before—Mary Boots was that way, nat¬ 
urally lucky. While poor Mamma wasn’t so bright, she 
was not the mother to let disgrace fall on her daughters, 
not when it could be prevented. A few more sittings with 
the mystic, and she would cut the fake out and go to Dr. 
Franklin and suffer the operation. Poor darling, her so 
ashamed—and no ether. Wasn’t it a terror, just to think 
of it, all the pain Mamma had to face, all the humilia¬ 
tion! 

But Mary had her own troubles as well. Was Lance on 
the square about having a lot of work to catch up with? 
Was he digging, as he claimed, last week-end in New 
Haven? Did Sylvia, a sly one, slip over to New Haven and 
get to see him last Sunday? She’d be equal to just such 
tricks, her laying for Lance like she was at both the 
breakfast and the condolence party. Sylvia was certainly 
after him, hammer and tongs. Then, too, there was that 
other girl in Boston, the Peggy that Lance talked about. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 


235 


And Peggy was back from Europe, Mary knew, hadn’t 
Skippo told Lance in Mary’s hearing that Peggy was home 
again? Yes, and Lance got immediately interested at the 
news, didn’t he say he’d like to see Peg again? But, worst 
of all, there was that long distance message at Casey’s last 
evening, a message from Lance that he couldn’t get 
down to New York for the coming week-end. Oh, God, 
how light he was holding Mary Boots, that he could let 
two whole weeks go by and not take the trouble to see 
her! 

How lovely love could be—if green jealous feelings were 
not such a big part of love! How it near to killed a body, 
being jealous, the most unhappy state of heart in all the 
world! 


Chapter Seventeen 


Lance had dug hard for hours. At last he was caught 
up—a fellow on the Dean’s list must have a fair sense of 
his own responsibility. Whoo, he was played out and dog 
hungry! He went to the kitchenette recess, found a 
bottle of milk in the refrigerator, put several bread slices 
to toast on the electric grill. Two in the morning, Sunday 
morning, and Mac wasn’t in as yet. Mac had the smallest 
of the three rooms in the New Haven apartment. Swell 
guy, Mac, no moocher, always paid as he went. Mac could 
afford to pay—Captain Donald Ross MacKettrick was not 
on the Cheyenne police force for the good of his health 
merely. 

Over milk and cheese toast, Lance thought back on 
his trip to Boston last Saturday. What a sap he’d been! 
Why hadn’t he followed his first intention and put the 
time in on hard work? Boston and pale lavender window 
panes in a Beacon Street house fronting the Common—oh, 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 237 

hell! That most honorable glass, tinted by a century’s ex¬ 
posure to sun and weather—and the brand of family su¬ 
periority when the family’s long dead ancestor was the 
builder of that same house! 

He saw himself in the first small hour of last Sunday 
morning: he left Peggy’s Beacon Street home, got into his 
car, switched on the ignition; then, he paused to cast an 
eye over the Common. A few late Bostonians strolled 
homeward from their Saturday evening’s diversion. From 
the Common, Lance turned to count the lavender panes 
which graced the windows of the house across the side¬ 
walk—thirteen oblongs of antique glass. No place for the 
son of Jacob Lansing, ne Laninsky! Evan Ewing was off 
his reservation this evening. Peggy’s mother had a cold 
eye for a young man who did not bear the same name as 
his grandfather. Great Christ, how Mrs. Frayne could pro¬ 
nounce Lansing, the phantom insky she could throw into 
it! No, this was not his bunch, not for him, a Sheff Senior, 
a moneyed fellow who had not made the Colonial, the 
Cloister, or the Saint Anthonys. Too much was off at the 
New Haven end of things, far more than Mrs. Frayne cared 
to take. 

What a pill of a family, Lance had thought as he started 
his car for New Haven last Sunday morning. And what 
had he ever seen in Peggy? The hide that girl had on her, 
as tanned as a mulatto, after a winter on the Mediter¬ 
ranean. After all, beauty is skin deep. As a perpendicular 
spectacle, Peg was stupendous—six feet of her, mostly in 
legs, topped by wide shoulders, worthy of a stevedore. To¬ 
night, she had worn pale green, frilly, fluffy, a good imita¬ 
tion of a Harvard oarsman doing the girly-girlies in a Hasty 
Pudding production. 


238 


A ROOF 


Lance’s thoughts came back to the present and he saw 
an empty quart bottle, an empty glass, an empty plate on 
the table before him. Methodically neat, he washed and 
cleaned up after his snack, then began to pack his week¬ 
end bag. 

Mac came in during the packing. 

“What’s up,” Mac asked; “you’re not going anywhere, 
not at this ungodly hour?” 

“Yes, I’d rather drive by night and get my rest later.” 

“Boston?” 

“No, New York,” Lance said. 

Mac said something as he lifted a book and banged it 
back on the table. 

“Now, what are you muttering in your beard?” 

“All right,” snapped Mac, “you can take it or leave it; 
but I don’t like the Boots picture; too many holes in that 
screen.” 

“Say, what’s getting into you? Ever occur to you that 
you might be a bit cuckoo?” 

“All right, all right! But you know what I think 
of it.” 

“Cut it out! Mary’s all right, she’s a swell kid.” 

“If she is all right, why can’t you see her in her home?” 

“I’ve told you why, you know all about that. Look 
here, Mac, you can’t get me suspicious of Mary. I’ve 
seen her, I know her.” 

“What in hell do you know about her?” 

“That she is real, genuine—and simple, honest as day¬ 
light.” 

“So, that’s how it is! You’ve fallen for her, fallen hard, 
if anybody were to ask me” 

“You haven’t been asked anything—it’s all your own 



AGAINST THE RAIN 239 

butting in. Now, Mac, get this through your thick head— 
I know a grand kid when I see one. And you mind your 
own damned business!” 

The outer door banged—Lance was on his way; and a 
few hours later a sleepy bellboy ushered him into a room 
in a Fifth Avenue hotel. Toward three in the afternoon, 
he awoke, had his breakfast—and went on his way to seek 
Mary. 

Of all bum apartment management, so many imbeciles, 
the staff at the Sutton Place house, not one able to recall 
a Miss Boots, nor at what suite her mail was delivered! 

"The young lady is a blonde,” Lance cued them, "red¬ 
dish gold hair, about so tall.” 

"I took one down like that, not ten minutes ago,” said 
an elevator operator. 

"Any idea where she went?” 

"No, but she seemed in a hurry to get there.” 

Mary must be working this morning, some culture dis¬ 
semination to finish, Lance deduced. His best move was 
to go to the obliging druggist across the street from the 
Goodrich Memorial. 

At Casey’s, across from the Mem, Lance bought a pack 
of cigarettes to break the ice. "Could I, by any chance,” 
he asked the man at the counter, "get a message to Miss 
Boots at the Goodrich Memorial?” 

"I don’t think she’d be there now,” the man said. "They 
close the office Sundays.” 

"Have you any idea how I may get in touch with her?” 

"Sure, you’ll find her next door. Go to Number 17, 
and four flights up. When you reach the top of the last 
stairs, ring the first door on your right.” 


240 A ROOF 

Lance climbed four flights, pressed the peg of the first 
doorbell on his right. 

"Could you tell me how I can get in touch with Miss 
Boots?” he inquired of the oldish little man in shirt 
sleeves who answered the ring. 

"Who’s there, Mr. Plykas?” asked a woman’s voice from 
within. 

"A young gentleman, Mrs. Boots.” 

"I’m Evan Lansing,” Lance told the man. 

"Mrs. Boots, he says he’s Evan Lansing and wants to see 
Miss Mary.” 

"Shut the door on him, Mr. Plykas, he’s one more of 
Stacey’s collectors.” 

The door banged on the instant. 

Mrs. Boots! Mary’s mother! Her accent was not Vir¬ 
ginian—it was slightly English. But Mary said her father 
was English born, that explained it, the wife had fallen 
into the husband’s accent. So the mother had arrived 
from Oklahoma for a stay in New York. But what was she 
doing in a tenement apartment this Sunday morning? And 
this collector from Stacey’s? 

Lance gave up the puzzle, and tried the bell again. 

This time Mrs. Boots opened the door. 

"You’re Mary’s mother,” the boy said, "I see the re¬ 
semblance. How do you do, Mrs. Boots—I’m Evan Lan- 

• yy 

sing. 

"Stacey’s Agency gives ’em fancy names,” she snapped, 
ignoring the outstretched hand. "So you’re Mr. Lansing, 
are you? The last one they sent to pester Mary called him¬ 
self a Mr. Remington.” 

"But I’m not a bill collector, Mrs. Boots, I’m a friend of 
Mary’s—I’ve called to see her. This should identify me, I 


AGAINST THE RAIN 241 

think.” Lance took his father’s last letter from his pocket 
and put it in the woman’s hand. 

Mrs. Boots scanned address and envelope’s letterhead. 
"All the proof from this I can see is that a bank in Youngs¬ 
town, Ohio, wrote to a fellow in Wall Street, New Haven, 
Connecticut.” 

"But I’m that fellow, Mrs. Boots.” 

"What if you are? Your name don’t mean anything 
to me. Now, on your way—and tell Stacey to quit pester- 

• I 9* 

ing me! 

"Please open the letter; it’s from my father. Read 
it, please do, Mrs. Boots—it’s quite brief, very imper¬ 
sonal.” 

Mrs. Boots with her lips moving read the letter and 
paused at the end of the typing, studying the script, none 
too legible. "Yes,” she admitted, "the name signed is 
Lansing, but I don’t get the first one.” 

"Jacob,” Lance prompted her. 

"Yes, Jacob Lansing, so it is.” 

Dear Lord, Effie breathed to herself as she studied 
the letterhead. The boner she had pulled, so shamed she 
could sink in her tracks, to treat a young gentleman like 
she done, and him the son of the president of a bank 
and trust company! And it all Mary’s fault, such a girl 
for never being confidential with her own mother. Mary 
must have met Mr. Lansing at the Ann, and they must be 
very friendly as he was calling her by her first name al¬ 
ready. But, howsoever^ Mary must be covered. Mr. Lan¬ 
sing must not get to suspicioning she might be a deceitful 
person, hiding things from her mother. Whatever in her 
home could that girl be ashamed of? It must be the piano, 
an. old square. Yes, it was the piano—Mary had fussed 


242 A ROOF 

about it lately, a baby grand very much on her mind, the 
last week or so. 

"Now, Mr. Lansing, all I can do is humbly beg your 
pardon and the dear Lord knows you would forgive me if 
you only knew how I been pestered over a bill of goods I 
never ordered, never had the use of, an unjust debt, if 
there ever was one in this world.” 

She spoke in awed tones, her manner obsequious, which 
Lance misinterpreted—contrite, he thought, for her initial 
belligerency. So the oil queen was not the lady she ap¬ 
peared to be in the eyes of an adoring daughter—unless 
it was that Mary chose to look upon her mother as one of 
God’s gentlewomen. She had looks, all right, facial beauty 
—a substantial old girl, generously bosomed. Rather queer, 
too, her indifference to dress—neat enough, but no style, 
no quality. Yet, it could be worse—suppose she were over¬ 
dressed, over jewelled? At least, Mrs. Boots was not purse- 
proud, an ostentatious money-flaunter. Something like his 
own old man, Lance judged, indulging herself in this and 
that pet economy. This slum apartment must be one of 
them—suddenly arrived in New York, she just could not 
see herself paying Park Avenue or Sutton Place rentals. 
Of course, she would have to come around to it before 
long, unless she intended to take Mary back to Oklahoma. 

"Come right in, Mr. Lansing, take a chair, sit in the 
parlor, and I’ll send one of the twins down to Casey’s 
to phone Mary you’re here. You may have to wait a spell 
for her, her and her chum, Lily Dorgan, has gone over to 
West Bronx to see another girl-friend, Molly Halleran.” 

Mrs. Boots moved a few feet nearer to the tiny entry 
hall, calling, "Connie, Marge, Marge, Connie, any you kids 
around?” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 243 

Evidently, they were not—the call was unanswered. 

"Anything I can do for you, Mrs. Boots?” asked the little 
man, his head protruding from a side door. 

"Yes, if you’d be that obliging, Mr. Plykas, and go down 
to Casey’s and call up the Hallerans’ and tell Mary that 
Mr. Lansing is waiting to see her here.” 

Hatless, coatless, Mr. Plykas went on his obliging mis¬ 
sion. 

Mrs. Boots seated herself. 

Lance likewise took a chair. 

A ring of childish laughter came from the rear of the 
apartment. 

"Now would you hear that, Mr. Lansing, them two kids 
here, all the time! Can you beat it, them knowing I wanted 
them to do something for me?” 

She shrieked again for Connie and Marge. 

Two unusually pretty little girls appeared, one an exact 
duplicate of the other, blonde, with delicate features and 
coloring. 

"The twins, Mr. Lansing, Mary’s little sisters. Connie, 
you shake hands with Mr. Lansing, a friend of Mary’s. Now, 
Marge, you shake hands with Mr. Lansing, and you both 
sit down and act like little ladies, and don’t ast any ques¬ 
tions.” 

"But, Mamma,” one asked, "who’s Mr. Lansing, some¬ 
body from the Ann?” 

"Why, Connie, I’m surprised, you’ve often heard your 
sister speak of Mr. Lansing, any number of times.” 

Very evidently the child had never heard of him, any 
more than he had heard of her or a twin sister. Nor had 
Mrs. Boots heard of him either, despite her lame protests 
to the contrary. To bar any further embarrassing ques- 


244 A ROOF 

tions, she got the twins off, giving each a dime for the 
movies. 

"You see they didn’t recognize you by Mr, Lansing,” 
the mother tried to retrieve, "with Mary always referring 
to you as Evan, just as you refer to her as Mary, the way 
young folks do nowadays.” 

Could Mac be right? Could Mary be phoney? 

Then, the woman’s voice again, breaking in on the boy’s 
agonized quandary. "Why, Mr. Lansing, you haven’t 
been took sick all of a sudden, eaten something that didn’t 
agree with you?” 

"No, no, I feel perfectly all right.” 

"You don’t look it. Sure you don’t want to go to the 
bathroom?” 

"No, thank you, Mrs. Boots, I don’t.” 

"Oh, go on, Mr. Lansing, don’t mind me—I got a boy 
of my own, around your age; you don’t need be bashful 
with me.” 

"Thank you, but I am quite all right.” 

"You don’t look like you was, Mr. Lansing. Sure you 
wouldn’t like me to fix you up a dose of sody?” 

"No, please don’t, Mrs. Boots!” 

But Effie was persistent and Lance had to compromise 
and swallow the water and soda-mints tablets she brought 
him. 

"Now, Mr. Lansing,” her tongue wagged on, "you 
mustn’t get a wrong idea of me, that I’m anybody not to 
pay my honest debts. I’m just the opposite, never obligat¬ 
ing myself beyond my limits. As my father used to say to 
us children, back in England, 'Debt is the prolific mother 
of folly.’ Mr. Lansing, I’m here to tell you my father was 
a wonderful man, full of wise sayings. He was well edu- 


AGAINST THE RAIN 245 

cated, an orphan, raised by a parson, kindly treated, but not 
adopted. How my father revered that good man, respect¬ 
ing his memory to his dying day!” 

Mr. Plykas returned and gave his report. The Haller- 
ans’ number didn’t answer, they must all have gone out, 
he thought. 

"Thank you, Mr. Plykas, you sure can be obliging. And 
don’t you fret any, Mr. Lansing. It means Mary has started 
for home and ought to be here in no while now, the Hal- 
lerans live only a block from a sub station, and Mary will 
take an express.” 

"Expresses don’t run Sundays,” said Mr. Plykas. 

Mr. Plykas got a black look. He cowered and disap¬ 
peared through a side door. 

"I’m afraid you ain’t comfortably seated, Mr. Lansing. 
Come over here by the window and sit on the divan with 
a pillow to your back whilst you wait for Mary. That’s the 
Mem, over there, and the blessing it’s been to us Neigh¬ 
borhood people, the advantages it’s given our children. If 
I’d been a millionaire, Mary couldn’t had more done for 
her in the way of culture. I hope you’ve heard her talk 
French, how she can say most anything in that language. 
And her music, Mr. Lansing, a wiz at it! She’s had the best 
teachers—the Mem’s like that, nothing too good for its 
people. Excuse me for a minute, I got to go to the kitchen 
and give an eye to a meat loaf I’ve got in the oven.” 

Lance leaned on the pillow, the fingers of his right hand 
rubbing back and forth from neck nape to tip of ear—a 
habitual gesture under stress or perplexity. 

"Then you’ve always lived in New York?” he asked the 
woman on her return from the kitchen. 

"Indeed I have, Mr. Lansing, twenty-two years come 


246 


A ROOF 


next November. I never was a rolling stone, though I can’t 
see any moss it gathered me to my profit, but still I might 
of gone further and fared worse. As my father used to 
say, ‘far-away hills look green,’ and for all anybody can 
tell, I done just as well by staying here, right in the one 
block, ever since I landed from Liverpool. We’re real New 
Yorkers, Mr. Lansing, all my children was born in this 
block, the twins never further away than South Jersey, 
where they go every summer to the Mem camp. Mary’s 
never been further than New Brunswick, the time Mrs. 
Lantey on the fourth floor wanted to send her parrot to 
her sister and Mary took it over for her.” 

The little man, now hatted and coated, passed silently 
through the room and went out. 

“That’s our roomer, Mr. Plykas. But don’t judge him 
by his name, Mr. Lansing. I know it’s Greek and so is 
Mr. Plykas, though he don’t look it, being rather fair com¬ 
plected. But it’s no disgrace to be a Greek, though lots 
of folks think otherwise. The Greeks used to be a great 
people, it was them as civilized the world. Mr. Plykas is a 
fine, steady man, twenty years an orderly at Bellevue 
Hospital, where he is highly thought of.” 

Lance rose to his feet. “Good-bye, Mrs. Boots,” he said, 
“I must be going.” 

The roadster with the Connecticut license plate sped 
from Goodrich Place. Was he going back to New Haven to 
face MacKettrick, the driver asked himself, Mac’s keen 
searching eyes? Then, the driver told the driver not to 
kid himself—there was just one person that Evan Lansing 
could not face, and that person was Evan Lansing. He 
must get away from himself—and get away from facts, 
from cold hard realities. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 247 

The roadster stopped at Skippo’s studio in Washington 
Square. Skip was in the right mood, a gloomy mood, one 
of his frequent spells of depression, ready to drink himself 
under the table. 

"How about getting away from ourselves,” proposed 
Lance, "and getting a change of consciousness?” 

"Swell,” Skippo assented, "and it will be serious drink¬ 
ing, Lance, very serious drinking.” 

"Perfectly O K by me, Skip, that’s what I’m here for.” 

After an hour devoted to serious drinking, Skippo be¬ 
came confidential—off his chest it came—and it was love. 
"Lance, I’m up against it—she’s a rare woman, a marvel¬ 
lous woman, a womanly woman, fundamentally feminine, 
the mother of three children. But there’s that bastard in 
the picture.” 

"Looks more like three bastards to me,” Lance observed. 

"I don’t mean the children, I mean her husband—she’s 
married, I’m telling you.” 

"I get you now, she’s a married woman, and the bastard 
in the ointment is the husband.” 

"And she’ll not divorce him, she’s that tender, that 
sweetly feminine, an old-fashioned girl.” 

"That’s just the type I’m here to warn you against. Now, 
Skippo, you listen to me and I’ll tell my story about one of 
those feminine women.” But the next moment Lance 
checked himself—no, he wasn’t going to squeal on Mary. 
Still, Skippo should be properly warned. 

"Listen to me, Skippo, and don’t take what I say per¬ 
sonally. I am not referring to any particular woman, I am 
merely generalizing on a particular type, the fundamentally 
feminine woman. You can spot them when you kiss them. 
When you kiss them, you go berserk, you flow into them, 
dazed, ecstatic. Now, follow me closely. Those women 



248 A ROOF 

have copulative mouths, they give you a surcharge of 
themselves, tingling to every nerve center.” 

"But, hell, Lance, I’ve never as much as got a kiss from 
her!” 

"Don’t interrupt me, I’m putting you next to when 
you do get a kiss from her. When you do get it, it will 
be something to remember, a sex punch like a trip-ham¬ 
mer.” 

"And I’m missing that. Now, Lance—” 

"Stop breaking in on me, can’t you? For an affair, that 
type is swell, but they are not affairable, more of the she- 
ness of them. This is how to spot them, the super-females: 
they have small heads, short legs, short thoraxes, long bel¬ 
lies—the queen bee type, generative. When one of them 
gets her man, he isn’t a lover, he’s an addict instead, tied 
down to slavery, his nose to the grindstone of attritious 
domesticity.” 

"Suits me perfectly,” said Skippo, "I want to be her ad¬ 
dict, I’m all for that kind of slavery, right into my lag.” 

"But not me,” declared Lance, "not for me. Look at me 
and see a wise guy that no super-feminine female will ever 
get her hooks on. I’m not a vegetable, topped a flower, a 
phallus. I’m not a wheat stalk, supporting a phallus to 
complete my life as a link to progressive germination, a 
vegetable’s sole function. I am homo sapiens, topped by a 
brain. Now, listen, Skippo, this is something to store in 
your memory, I’m giving you treasures of thought bio¬ 
logically treated—you know life began with the vegetable, 
the step between the mineral and the animal.” 

"I don’t care about that, Lance, there is only one step 
that concerns me and that step is a husband, her husband.” 

"Skippo, deposed monarchs are troublesome to the body 


249 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

politic; and, as I am trying to impress on your dense intel¬ 
ligence, life was vegetable before it was animal.” 

''But, Lance, her husband isn’t a vegetable, her husband 
is . . .” 

"Don’t interrupt me, I’m telling you and you remem¬ 
ber all these gems of thought. Skippo, when you choose 
your life’s mate, choose her from the dictates of your gray¬ 
est brain cells. Remember, Skip, you are topped by a 
head, not a flower.” 

"Say, Lance, I know two girls, both peaches, they’re 
swell on a party.” 

"Blondes,” asked Lance, "reddish-haired blondes?” 

"One is, and say, how about my calling ’em up for a 
party? How about it? Let’s have a party, a hell of a party.” 

"A grand idea, Skippo—let’s.” 


Chapter Eighteen 


Wednesday and where in hell was Lance? wondered 
Steve MacKettrick in New Haven. When he got Skippo’s 
studio by telephone yesterday, Skippo’s Jap boy answered. 
But the boy knew little more than that Mr. Forbes and 
Mr. Lansing had gone out together Sunday afternoon, 
and he had seen nothing of either gentleman since. 

Both yesterday and the day before Miss Boots had called 
New Haven, and her voice was the voice of a much per¬ 
turbed young woman. Each time she asked to speak to 
Mr. Lansing. 

"Didn’t you see him this last week-end?” Mac ques¬ 
tioned her on her second call. 

Miss Boots said she had not seen Mr. Lansing, but that 
he had called at her home on Sunday and she was out at 
the time. 

Mac had been as non-committal as he had been courteous 
—and with good reason. Earlier on Monday, he had busied 
himself with other people’s business, a visit to police head¬ 
quarters. The chief of detectives was friendly to the son 


250 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 251 

of a brother official—young MacKettrick got what he 
wanted, access to certain infallible references. On research, 
Mac discovered four outstanding facts. First, the State of 
Oklahoma had no Mr. Boots with a Dun and Bradstreet 
rating. Second, a Miss Mary Boots was listed in the New 
York city directory, a typist for the United Can Company 
with a residence at 17 Goodrich Place. Third, Goodrich 
Place was a short street in the tenement district. Fourth, 
the telephone number of Cupid’s messenger was traced to 
a drug store at 15 Goodrich Place, but one door removed 
from Mary’s habitat. And this was Miss Simplicity, sweet, 
unsophisticated—Lance’s old-fashioned girl, the oil king’s 
daughter, a real person, the grand kid, et cetera! 

Shortly after six Wednesday evening, Lance finally 
showed up. What a bust he had been on, Mac thought; 
cheeks drawn, hands shaky, and a shiner, a magnificent 
shiner! The damned boob, to let a little cheat of a chit 
crack him up like that! A three days’ bat on the head of it, 
Lance’s big idea to run away from himself via the booze 
route! He’d had his run, and small good it did him—here 
he was now, face to face with reality again. 

When Mac proposed going out to dinner Lance excused 
himself. Off on his feed, he said, had been hitting the booze 
too hard. 

“I’m of a frugal turn at the present moment,” Mac an¬ 
nounced and thereupon he indulged his opportune mood 
at the electric grill and dined on scrambled eggs and toast. 
After the repast, he sat across the table—and waited. But 
nothing came forth. A bad sign that, Lance’s moody 
silence! Holy God, the kid was in deep, the kid was in 
love! Yes, here was a simp in bad shape, hard hit. Lance 



252 


A ROOF 


was hurt where he could be hurt the very sorest, taken in 
by that little fraud. Poor old Lance and the excessive valu¬ 
ation he set on one’s personal integrity! Of all things, for 
that kid to have to sit down to the realization that he had 
fallen for a miserable little cheat with not an honest fiber 
in her whole carcass! 

Then the telephone rang, New York was calling. Mac- 
Kettrick hurried to his own room. 

"It’s me, Lance, it’s Mary.” 

"Good evening, Mary.” 

Mary paused for several seconds in Casey’s stuffy booth, 
stifling with stale cigarette fumes. Her alibi was all pre¬ 
pared—the weak links were to be glossed over, the strong 
links emphasized. But so hard to know just where to be¬ 
gin! What should she say first? 

"Are you there, Lance, are you listening?” 

"Yes, I’m here.” 

Two breath exhausts came over the wire; then, her voice, 
nervous, hesitant. "Lance, please listen, I’ve a lot to ex¬ 
plain to you.” 

"O K, go ahead, I’m listening.” 

"I meant to explain everything to you, the other Sun¬ 
day—but I couldn’t, not with third parties always present.” 

"Get going, what is it?” 

"It’s this, Lance: After Mamma told me about your call¬ 
ing to see me, I got scared something fierce, afraid you have 
a wrong opinion of me. But I can explain.” 

"All right, go ahead, pitch into it.” 

"Lance, I want to explain to you that I don’t live per¬ 
manently in Sutton Place. I only visit there, sometimes, 
visit a friend of mine, Miss Elliot, a wealthy lady who’s with 
me in my social work for the Goodrich Memorial Annex. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 253 

Say something, Lance,” urged Mary, "please say you do 
understand me, that you believe in me.” 

"Don’t you think that’s a big order?” 

"But wait till I’ve explained everything to you. As I 
wanted to tell you and meant to tell you the other Sun¬ 
day, I drew a long bow when I said that Papa had a lot 
of oil wells in Oklahoma. You see, Lance, it’s this way— 
it’s Uncle Henry, Papa’s brother, who is in the oil business. 
You understand that, don’t you?” 

"Understand what—that your uncle, Henry Boots, is the 
oil tycoon?” 

"Yes, him, not Papa. But Papa is with him. But he does 
nothing for his family. I’ve a very bad father, Lance, and 
I was too much ashamed of him to ever mention him to 
you.” 

An interruption from the toll operator whom Lance in¬ 
structed to reverse the charges. 

"I’ve got more to explain to you, Lance. Do you re¬ 
member what you told me at first meeting, that you said 
you had my number and I was a small town girl? You 
remember that, don’t you?” 

"Yes, I recall what I said.” 

"Then, I said I came from a little place in Oklahoma, 
called Alda, the place where Uncle Henry used to write 
to Papa from. I said it, thinking I would give you a little 
ride, just funning, to show you that you could be wrong. 
I did it for a little practical joke, thinking you would en¬ 
joy how I put one over on you.” 

"You certainly put plenty over on me, Mary, and I’m 
not enjoying it, not a little bit.” 

"Why, Lance, how queer you sound! It don’t seem you 
that’s talking.” 


254 


A ROOF 


"Now, Mary, you listen to this: I’m ready to admit that 
I fell for you, fell hard. I fell harder than I realized. And 
you knew it. You’re no baby. You know when a fellow 
is falling and you knew how deep I was going with you. 
You’ve had lots of fellows fall hard for you and you know 
all about it. But from the looks of things, here is some¬ 
thing you don’t know and I advise you to get this straight 
in your mind and act on it. A man demands a damn sight 
more than you can offer. When it comes to building a 
future a man wants truth, he wants honesty. Last Sun¬ 
day, I might have gone to any lengths with you, but not 
on your foundation, a tissue of lies and petty snobbery, all 
dirt cheap. Mary, you’re so lousy cheap! My God, if you 
had something worth covering up, I could excuse you! If 
you had a baby, if you had a wild record behind you, I 
wouldn’t mind it so. But you bitch it on your mother, 
your home, your entire set-up. I prefer an honest tart to a 
cheap snob. I’m all fed up, Mary. Good-bye!” 

Lance hung up. 

The boy sat far into the night with his thoughts. He 
had fallen for a cheap snob, for a miserably mean little 
creature. But his own come-back had been none too 
laudatory. On his part, Lance felt he had proven he was a 
roughneck, Jake Lansing’s son, all right, at his coarsest, his 
rawest. But the thing was so basic, this finding the girl a 
fellow wants above all other women. Sure, that was bed 
rock, the woman desired before all others. On bed rock, 
Jake’s boy went true to form and gave a steel mill hand’s 
performance. But, Jesus Christ, how it hurt, hurt all the 
more because he was what he was in fiber, a primitive man, 
cheated out of his woman! And the woman herself was 
the cheater. God damn Mary Boots to hell! Why did she 


AGAINST THE RAIN 25 5 

have to come into his life to raise all this inside disturbance? 

Nothing more to Mary than skin deep beauty. Giving a 
fellow skin, when he has hit bed rock! The crux of this 
whole damned woman business was how little looks matter, 
once the looks have caught the fellow. Flow little does the 
physical matter in the end! Nothing matters but the 
woman’s actual value as a human entity. 

Evan Lansing cursed himself out for a boob, a fly caught 
in a honey trap. And the hard-boiled guy that he had been 
in his own estimation! Why couldn’t he have been one of 
those sane fellows who can see under a girl’s skin and know 
whether she has it in her to meet the crises in a man’s life 
without wrecking—Lance’s thoughts paused. Wrecking 
what? he asked himself. Search him, he didn’t know. The 
cock-eyed mystery of the entire set-up—it was beyond 
him, and he was beyond his own depth, past any self-reck¬ 
oning. But summed up into some concretive semblance, it 
resolved down to the fact that he wanted Mary, wanted a 
Mary that never existed. His Mary was a phantom, he was 
in the same fix as a fellow in love with a ghost. Why has 
a man to get this way, all worked up to the pitch where he 
can’t see himself taking life on his own? Why does some¬ 
thing so impersonal as life’s germinative progression have 
to intrude itself on the individual and rob him of his own 
individuality? And to be so robbed through Mary Boots, 
a liar, a cheat, a fraud, a snob. 

Life was as screwy as it was tragic, thought Lance, its 
starkest tragedies so unnecessary. Mary didn’t have to 
cheat to get him. The haywire fraud, not a lick of sense 
in her head. As if he cared a rap what a girl was, so long 
as she was genuine! The damned fake, hadn t he been in 
the open with her, given her the entire picture, his name 


256 


A ROOF 


Laninsky, Dad up from the iron puddle, a rough cus¬ 
tomer and anything but a gentleman? Mary was rotten, 
putrid rotten, she didn’t know candor when she saw it. 
And he cared for her, he wanted her, wanted something 
that wasn’t inside her alluring envelope. That’s all she 
was, a pack of lies and deceit done up in flower petal tissue. 

Toward morning, another question came to the boy’s 
mind—Mary’s smart clothes, no typist’s pay ever paid for 
her outfits. Was she on the loose, was some fellow dress¬ 
ing her? No, Lance was sure on one point, Mary was not 
physically accessible. Then, he got it, the bill collectors. 
That told the story, Mary got credit on the strength of 
Papa’s oil wells in Oklahoma—she had put a good one over 
on some swanky dress shop. But the shop was now on to 
her. Christ, she was in deep, in danger of arrest! Poor 
kid, he must send her some money! Yes, he’d attend to 
that, the first thing, tomorrow. But now about himself— 
how long before he could snap out of it and get Mary from 
his system? Probably, never—always the scar, a nasty scar 
that took the trimmings off life, took the sweetness away, 
the placeless element that distinguishes love from animal 
ruts. And to think that he had had a fierce case of love all 
dressed up in moonshine accessories, ready to take the grand 
flight with the one girl! Oh, hell! 

A registered letter from New Haven, from Lance! Now, 
everything was understood, everything forgiven. Heaven 
seemed suddenly opened to Mary as her hands, all a-tremble, 
tore the envelope flap. But, God, it was not heaven, it was 
hell, blackest hell! Lance to send her money, two hundred 
dollars! More of Mamma’s crazy work, her first taking 
Lance for a Stacey collector! Look at what he wrote, a few 


AGAINST THE RAIN 257 

lines on the paper that inclosed the four fifty-dollar bills! 

"If you wish to please me immensely,” Mary read, "please 
use the inclosed amount to straighten out your financial dif¬ 
ficulties. I am absolutely sincere when I beg you to do this. 
I feel you do not realize the dire results of misrepresenting 
yourself to tradesmen. They are a hard lot, Mary, and I 
will be the happier when I know you are no longer en¬ 
tangled in such a relentless web.” 

That was all he wrote, not another word. But she would 
tell him something, a humdinger, thrown into his face with 
his two hundred dollars! "Take your money,” Mary penned, 
"and stick it in your ear with my compliments.” No, that 
would not do—whatever Lance might think of her, she 
must remain a refined girl, no one to make such a vulgar 
statement. 

"Thank you,” she wrote on second thought; "but I have 
no personal debts and if I had I would rot in jail before I 
would take your hand-outs.” 

No, that was not refined, that would never do. 

The last effort, the tenth, was more worthy of the writer. 
"You mean to be kind,” it read, "but you don’t understand 
me in a single thing. I am not in debt and I am no girl 
to take money from a man. Your wrong idea of how I 
dress beyond my means is like all your other wrong ideas 
about me. I get my nice things from a wealthy lady I 
visit in Sutton Place, Miss Elliot, the social worker I work 
with.” 

Her pen paused, yes, that was better—the "Carry On” 
Shop might look to phony to a man. Lance would not 
understand a business run on a non-profit system. 

"Miss Elliot gives me lots of nice things,” Mary con¬ 
tinued; "and I make them over to fit me. Thanks for the 


258 


A ROOF 


kind gesture and I think I understand it and that you are 
accustomed to girls who think nothing of taking your 
money. But excuse me. I am different and think it an in¬ 
sult for a man to offer money to a girl.” 

When the communication was registered and posted, 
Mary went to the Vicarage. The Vicar gave attentive ear 
to a truthful account of the adventure with Mr. Lansing. 

"I want to get one point straight,” he finally asked; "tell 
me, Mary, when you first met this young man, did you 
also tell him you were a social worker?” 

"Yes, I did, now that you mention it.” 

"But that was not the reason you gave me at the time. 
If you recollect, Mary, you stated that you wanted to be 
a social worker so that you might make a better marriage.” 

"But, Mr. Carew, I was already in love with Mr. Lansing 
and I meant to marry him. That’s how it was with me. 
And now I’ve lost Lance,” she wept, "my whole life is 
ruined. I’ll never know another happy day, long as I live.” 

"Twaddle, Mary,” said the Vicar, "you’ll be in love and 
out of love a dozen times or more between now and your 
wedding! Just take it on the chin; and try a square deal 
with the next fellow. It’s a fine thing, honesty, the only 
foundation for one’s house of life.” 

"But you don’t understand me, Mr. Carew, no more 
than Lance understands me. This is real love, true love. 
I’ll never get over it, it’s my nature, me all over, to love 
once and only once. Oh, God, Mr. Carew, I’m fit to die, 
I’m that unhappy.” 

"There may be something in that, Mary. It is possible 
for you to theatricalize your misery and make it quite in¬ 
teresting and enjoyable.” 

"Oh, Mr. Carew, how could I enjoy being unhappy?” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 259 

"I am quite convinced that you could accomplish that 
with marked success, Mary.” 

"What a queer thing to think of me!” 

"Mary, we are all rather much of the same emotional 
turn. Our real romance in life is with ourselves. We are 
all too prone to take ourselves romantically. One is so 
in love with oneself that it is difficult to accept the truth 
and see oneself as one really is. No love so blind, so willful, 
as self-love.” 

He talked on in that way for quite a while—the grandest, 
the best man on earth. And how terrible Mary felt that 
she could not open her heart full wide and tell the Vicar 
about Mamma’s trouble. But that would never do in the 
world—Mr. Carew was THE CHURCH, and the Church 
did not believe in brought-on miscarriages, holding it a 
sin next to murder. 

"Good-bye, Mary,” he said at last, "and get home with 
you. But see me soon again. I am always glad to see you, 
my most bothersome and likeable parishioner.” 



Chapter Nineteen 


Two months now since Mary had heard the telephone’s 
click in the stuffy booth, the click from New Haven when 
Lance hung up on her. Since that night she had turned 
into a very queer person. Yes, a strange person, she thought; 
in a way, she was very much like Mr. Moffett, the Halleran 
girls’ uncle. 

Rory Moffett was a World War veteran, a live wire 
salesman before he went to France, fond of a party and 
the life of every party he graced with his jolly presence, his 
fund of laughter. But he was so different now, everybody 
said. Nothing meant a thing to Rory Moffett when he got 
home from the War; he was all dead inside and hated 
parties as much as he used to love them. He was still a 
good salesman and made money—all he did, just made 
money to no purpose. He never looked at a girl, he, the 
greatest ladies’ man in the West Bronx before he was a 
veteran. He never laughed, there wasn’t a joke left in 
him. He was sour as a pickle, sour at all the world. 


260 


261 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

Yes, Mary felt, she was another Mr. Moffett, nothing 
meant a thing to her now, not even the movies. Oh, that 
night, two months ago! From the telephone booth in 
Casey’s drugstore, Mary had gone upstairs to find Mamma 
alone in the flat and the twins at the Mem, taking their 
violin lesson. 

"Will you look at the child!” cried Effie. "Heaven 
love you, dearie, what’s the matter, coming in with the 
face of death on you?” 

"Mamma,” Mary opened fire, "I’ve stood all the non¬ 
sense I’m going to take from you. You’ve drove me des¬ 
perate. Now, you listen—either you go to Dr. Franklin 
and be operated on tomorrow, or else I’ll walk out on you, 
I’ll disappear like Papa did.” 

Effie began to cry. "Mary dearie,” she sobbed, "I was 
to Dr. Franklin the day before yesterday, after I seen that 
Zithero was a fake, him getting nowheres locating your 
Papa. But Herbie Finckelbaum won’t touch no woman 
that’s past her full second month. He says it’s too danger¬ 
ous and he never takes risks, a set rule with him.” 

"You low-down slut, so you’re going to have your dirty 
bastard, you’re going to sink me, are you?” 

"Did a mother ever live to be so talked to! Oh, dear God 
in heaven, You hear what my child is calling me!” 

"I only just began.” 

"Don’t you dast hit me, Mary, don’t you dast strike 
your mother!” 

But the girl’s arm had swung, her clenched fist landed 
on the woman’s mouth. 

Mrs. Boots reeled, recovered her balance, and struggled 
toward the divan. She reached it, and lay down, her apron 
lifted to her face. The apron was print cotton, blue flower 


262 


A ROOF 


sprays on white background. The blue turned black, the 
white turned crimson, a big blotch, getting bigger. 

"Just say you didn’t mean to,” Mrs. Boots sobbed as 
she mopped the blood from her lips; "say you didn’t mean 
to, Mary dearie, and I’ll forgive you and pray the dear 
Lord to forgive you.” 

"But I did mean to, and I can’t help myself, it’s all I 
can do not to kill you.” 

"Did ever a mother live to get treated so in all the ages 
in the world!” 

"Did ever a mother more deserve it? I stood for you 
getting that way. I did everything for you. I got Sid 
to get Dr. Franklin to help you. But you threw me down, 
like you’re hell-bent to have your bastard!” 

"Now, Mary, that’s no way to speak of your little brother 
or sister, whether it’s born or not.” 

"It can’t be born, do you hear me? It can’t be born, 
I tell you!” 

"But, dearie, if you know how it hurts me, every time 
you call it that horrid name.” 

"All it is, a dirty bastard, and don’t you dare say it’s my 
little brother or sister.” 

The impudence of the girl, thought Effie; like she wasn’t 
one herself! If it could only be thrown in her face and 
take some of the pride out of her! She certainly was the 
bastard, for all the world like Walter Upjohn, her father. 
No real heart in Mary, her head too full of ambitious 
notions, wanting to rise in the world, just like Walter. No, 
a mother can’t tell her child it is a bastard, a reflection on 
her own conduct. Like as not, Mary would really kill 
her if she knew the truth, the girl was that proud, it 
meaning little to her that her father was a baron. No, 


AGAINST THE RAIN 263 

Mary could only see Walter as the baron that made her 
a bastard, and she’d get out all her spite on her poor 
mother. 

"You heard me, Mamma, you can’t have a bastard, it 
can’t be born.” 

"I can manage that, Mary dearie, if you help me. I’ll 
get down to it and make it a business. I had that in 
mind today, when I asked Mr. Cohen if you could take 
over the salads. He said it was all right, that you could 
come to the store, evenings at seven, getting off around 
nine, and he’ll pay twelve a week for it. Meanwhile, I’ll 
stay home and take hot baths and quinine.” 

"Are you sure that’s any good?” 

"Nothing could be surer, but it will take all my time, not 
to speak of all my strength. The baths must be taken 
continual and the same with the quinine. I know it works 
because Mrs. Carlson told me in strictest confidence that 
it’s what her sister-in-law does, and it’s been eight years 
now and a little over, since she had her last.” 

Miss Elliot did not seem pleased when Mary told her of 
the part time job at Cohen’s. 

"But I’ve got to take it,” the girl pleaded. "Mamma 
has lumbago and must stay home and take treatments 
for it.” 

At that, Miss Elliot proposed to pay Mary what Mr. 
Cohen would pay her. "Judge Ramsey,” she said, "likes 
a young person around, and, Mary, you seem to be the 
favored young person.” 

Of course, Mr. Cohen did not like to take in a strange 
worker; but, a kind man, he saw Mary’s side and was 
obliging, doing a lot of grouching, however. 


264 


A ROOF 


Before long, Miss Elliot fired Miss Trumbell. How Mary 
missed that lovely girl—such a sweet person, her sympa¬ 
thetic nature, her desire to please everybody, especially 
Mary Boots. But, strangely enough, Miss Elliot was nicer 
than ever—more and more invitations to Sutton Place 
and week-ends on Long Island. 

In the middle of the present month, Judge Ramsey had 
to go to Europe on business; and the next week, Miss Elliot 
had a sudden breakdown. They took the poor dear darling 
to a sanitarium near Chappaqua, and not a soul was al¬ 
lowed to see her, not even her closest friends—nor her 
relatives, although that was no privation, her hating them 
all, pack and parcel. 

The allowance stopped with Miss Elliot’s breakdown, 
and Mary had to go to Cohen’s every evening for two 
and a half hours’ work. Then Mrs. Cromwell’s big finger 
came into affairs at the Ann. Poor dear Mrs. Mason was 
no match for that woman. How could any mere Head- 
worker stand up against Mrs. Cromwell when she had 
it in her to steam-roller Mr. Goodrich himself, when he 
was alive? 

Naturally, Mr. Morrissey took things in hand when 
Miss Elliot went to the sanitarium. But only for a week, 
until Dr. Martha Foster, a special pet of Mrs. Cromwell’s, 
could arrive on the scene, which she did one Monday morn¬ 
ing, planting her fat self in Miss Elliot’s chair at Miss 
Elliot’s desk. She was a tall fleshy woman with a thin 
bony face, subject to hot flushes, when every window 
had to be opened, regardless of the weather! Somewhere 
between forty and fifty, easy telling what was the matter 
of her; but, why she should advertise the change of life 
was quite beyond Mary, certainly not very modest in 
Dr. Foster. 


265 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Dr. Foster has a pick on me,” Mary confided to Mrs. 
Mason and Mr. Morrissey one afternoon in the lounge. 
"She has turned my cases over to Mr. Lambeth.” 

Mr. Morrissey made a grimace as Lambeth was men¬ 
tioned—he didn’t like the fellow. Very easy not to like 
such a person, a young man the Doctor brought into the 
Ann with her. He was a little runt with the face of a 
chicken, all nose, no chin. To see him and the Doctor to¬ 
gether, and they were usually together, put Mary in 
mind of a big, fat turkey gobbler and a plucked skinny 
broiler acting very chummy with each other. Next to 
her flushes, she was interested in Mr. Lambeth’s health, 
afraid he’d overdo himself. She’d give him cases, but not 
send him out on them, just as if she could not let him get 
out of her sight for a moment. His company must have 
been the attraction, it certainly was not his appearance. 
She called him Beth, he called her Tha, the last syllable 
of Martha, her first name. In no time it was all over the 
Ann, all the workers calling them Beth and Tha behind 
their backs. 

"How I dread seeing Beth take over the Menchininis 
and the Zirracs,” said Mrs. Mason to Mr. Morrissey, shak¬ 
ing her head sadly. 

"Sins of omission, fortunately, not of commission,” 
he told her; "Tha is not going to let that rare bird of 
hers overwork himself in this man’s institution.” 

"I’m getting nothing to do,” complained Mary. "From 
the very first, I could see Tha didn’t approve of me.” 

"Have you had any disputes with her?” Mrs. Mason 
asked. 

"No, she has hardly spoken to me since our first meet- 

• yy 

mg. 

"What sort of a meeting was it?” asked Mr. Morrissey. 


266 


A ROOF 


"Questions chiefly, beginning with what college I grad¬ 
uated from. The more I answered, the nastier she turned 
on me. By the time she got me down to admitting no fur¬ 
ther than the Eighth Grade, she was prussic acid. 5 ’ 

"That’s Tha,” he remarked, "she takes her Ph.D. seri¬ 
ously.” 

"Also her authorship,” put in Mrs. Mason. 

"Oh, is she an author?” Mary asked. "Of what, of 
books?” 

"Of just one book. Post-James Behaviorism, wasn’t it, 
Felix?” Mrs. Mason asked. 

"Yes,” Mr. Morrissey laughed; "but what Tha doesn’t 
know about Ann District misbehaviorism could fill a 
much bigger book than the one she wrote.” 

"But, Mrs. Mason, please give me something to do,” 
begged Mary; "I can’t hang around here perfectly idle, it’s 
the most trying thing possible.” 

The Headworker looked discouraged, a woman at her 
wits’ end. "Felix, think of something for Mary to do, 
can’t you?” she appealed to Mr. Morrissey. 

"With Mary’s musical training, perhaps she might be 
helpful to Miss Peroni.” 

The following day Mary was taken to Miss Peroni, the 
Musical Director. 

The Director was lovely, but the job she gave Mary 
was far from lovely, although it was the best that could 
be done under the circumstances. 

Oh, hell, what a thing to be put at—patrol duty, to 
walk up and down between the music rooms, pussyfooting 
to see that the kids were practicing and not damaging 
the Ann’s pianos and violins! And so much time for 
thinking. And nothing pleasant to think about. God, 


267 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

it was terrible! When Lance wasn’t on Mary’s mind, 
Mamma was. 

How awful, those thoughts of Mamma at home, dosing 
down quinine and scalding herself in hot baths! If some¬ 
thing didn’t happen soon, how long could Mamma’s 
strength hold out? Might she die? Might she die with all 
this sin on her soul? 

"Mr. Carew,” Mary appealed to the Vicar that eve¬ 
ning, "I want to ask you about the case of a woman in 
the Ann District, a woman that’s troubling my mind 
something awful, I’m so worried over her dying in a state 
of deep sin.” 

And Mrs. Boots’s case was presented in an adroit dis¬ 
guise. 

"Now, tell me,” the girl concluded, "if this poor 
thing dies suddenly, will her soul be lost?” 

"Do you wish her to lose her soul?” 

"Why, no, Mr. Carew, how could I and it keeping me 
awake at night, I’m so worried over her?” 

"Don’t worry for her and don’t presume to think 
you are more merciful than God.” 

And how queer, thought the girl as she left the Vicarage, 
not a caution from Mr. Carew that the woman should 
be stopped from trying to miscarry herself, not a word 
of advice that Mary should use her influence in that 
direction. Not a sign that the woman’s two sins had hor¬ 
rified him. All the Vicar seemed to show was deep pity 
as he sat at his desk with his key-ring and ran his thumb 
nail over the notches of one key after another, his face 
so sad and thoughtful. So hard to understand the com¬ 
bination of sin and sex and how much the place where a 
person lived had to do with it. If Mamma had lived in 


268 


A ROOF 


Nevada, she would be as good a woman today as she 
ever was, and have been already married before she went 
the limit with the man concerned. 

Then, Mary thought of Stanley Hayden and his queer 
book and how dead set Stan was against sex antagonism. 
But God must have His own divine purpose in that an¬ 
tagonism, a precaution of heaven to make older women, 
deserted wives in particular, behave themselves. What 
could a woman with a raft of kids see in sex, anyhow? 
If she does, she has no more sense than a starved alley cat 
that’s out on a cold winter night, howling for a tom to get 
her with a batch of kittens that will freeze to death as 
soon as they are kittened. What poor cats have to suffer 
on account of sex! And Mamma no better than a cat. 
A very nasty-talking girl, Nadine Knox at the Can 
Company, said it only lasted for a short time, especially 
when the man was along in years. What a poor sense of 
values Mamma had, paying for glad minutes in months of 
suffering! But this was no way to think, letting the mind 
get down to such low levels. And the low levels Mamma 
had sunk to—no beautiful love for Mr. Plykas, no ro¬ 
mance in her heart. Wasn’t it enough to drive a girl 
plumb crazy, her having such a mother and her with such 
a great love for that mother? 

How hard it was, sometimes, to kiss Mamma, or be af¬ 
fectionate to her, knowing she was so animal. But the 
Vicar’s words came back to Mary. Was she judging her 
mother harder than God would judge her? Mr. Carew 
did not seem worried over the sin of a woman’s trying 
to get rid of a bastard baby—all he showed was pity for 
the poor creature. 

Was she too painfully religious? Mary asked herself. 


269 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Was she more religious than the Vicar? The Vicar was 
rich, he had all the things that make people sophisticated. 
Stanley Hayden said no sophisticated Protestants had any 
more than an outward form of religion, that they took 
none of the Commandments seriously. To hear Stan 
talk, one would think the Protestant churches were forms 
of society with no actual faith whatever behind them. Of 
course, he made an exception of the Bible Belters and the 
Protestants in the tenements of the big cities—they took 
religion seriously, they took the Commandments seri¬ 
ously. 


Chapter Twenty 


After a month of it, Mrs. Cromwell was on to Dr. 
Foster. But, the pighead that creature was, Mrs. Crom¬ 
well did not fire the Doctor—she only fired Mr. Lambeth. 
Mr. Morrissey was taken from the Boys’ Work and made 
Foster’s assistant—assistant in name only—everybody knew 
he was the real works now, second only to Mrs. Cromwell. 
Mr. Buckner, just graduated from Columbia, took Mr. 
Morrissey’s place with the Boys. Mary was taken from 
patrol duty and returned to Foster’s office. But she did 
not have her own little office—Cromwell had that now, her 
Ann headquarters. It was more than Mr. Morrissey could 
take; he sent his letter of resignation to the Executive 
Board. Although Mrs. Cromwell got off her high horse 
and asked him to reconsider, even offered a higher salary, 
all the ado was in vain; at the end of the month Mr. Mor¬ 
rissey walked out of the Ann and took a government welfare 
job in Washington. 

All this while Miss Elliot was no better in health; there 


270 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 271 

she was in the sanitarium and not a soul allowed to see 
her. Nor as much as a glimpse of Judge Ramsey, he 
was still in Europe. Mrs. Cromwell was sore as a car¬ 
buncle over Mr. Morrissey’s leaving the Ann in the lurch, 
and still sorer at the Administration in Washington. To 
hear her talk, one would think that the President had per¬ 
sonally coaxed Mr. Morrissey away from the Ann just 
to spite her. 

Days, weeks, months jumbled together, but nothing 
was clear to Mary, not any more. Vaguely, she knew 
it was July now, but it had no meaning, one way or the 
other. A day was merely something to be got through and 
then home to hear Mamma say nothing had happened. 
She was beginning to show; but the twins, thank God, were 
in summer camp on the Delaware River. The debts were 
something fierce. Mr. Plykas, too, was in a hole. His 
mother in Providence had died, leaving him her doctor 
bills and funeral expenses. 

When Mrs. Boots took to her bed, all the neighbors 
were sorry to see her laid up with lumbago. Grandma 
Dorgan made a novena for her recovery. No one, not 
even Mrs. Lantey, had the least suspicion that Mrs. Boots 
might not have lumbago. Mrs. Boots had always been such 
a proper person, jolly enough with men, but always keep¬ 
ing them at their distance. No men ever called on her, 
she was never seen in men’s company. As for Mr. Plykas, 
he was beneath suspicion, a little shrimp of a man, always 
in the background, ready to run if you said "Boo” at him. 
That Mr. Plykas could ruin Mrs. Boots, or that Mrs. Boots 
would let Mr. Plykas ruin her was too ridiculous a thought 
to occur to any mind in the Neighborhood. 

Life and time went on. Life and time were strange 


272 


A ROOF 


things, Mary felt—she breathed, she ate, she slept, she 
kept living. The last few days, so much talk of the 
heat, the oppressive weather. Other summers, she had 
been ready to fuss too, the minute she felt the least dis¬ 
comfort. As if comfort or discomfort were important 
in one’s life! One thing only was important, that you 
didn’t get sunk; that one thing, nothing else. 

“I’ll not be sunk, I’ll not be sunk,” Mary repeated over 
and over to herself as she sat alone over a cup of tea and 
an egg sandwich. She did not have to prepare anything 
for Mamma this evening—Mrs. Reardon had brought in 
a cup-custard and Grandma Dorgan a plate of cream 
toast. They were in the living room now, where Mamma 
lay on the divan, a light cover over her. She lay on her 
side, so they wouldn’t notice her condition. She was 
pale, very weak, the quinine and hot baths seemed to take 
the very life out of her without accomplishing anything 
practical. 

But moping in the kitchen was not getting on with 
the job at Cohen’s. With an effort Mary stirred herself 
and started for the delicatessen. As she left the flat, she 
heard Grandma and Mrs. Reardon saying the Rosary for 
Mamma’s lumbago, the two dear souls down on their knees 
bowing over their beads. 

Down the stair-well, down the four flights, the Rosary’s 
cadence lingered in the girl’s ears, "Blessed is the fruit of 
thy womb, blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” 

"So tired you look, Mary,” Mr. Cohen said, "I give 
you the night off. Poor business today; too hot, nobody 
eating much. Run on home, take yourself a nice rest 
this evening.” 

But Mr. Cohen’s voice was not clear, she hardly heard 


273 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

him, the Rosary still in her ears. Out in the street, it grew 
distinct, swelling and falling, almost like an organ’s notes, 
over and over, "Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” 

Reaching St. Botolph’s, the girl sat down on the Chapel 
steps. A cloudless sky of summer heat, the smoke-blurred 
crimson that wested the closing day. She wondered were 
she going crazy—a hundred, a thousand voices were in the 
air, mounting to crescendo, wailing, not praying the Rosary 
now. "Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, blessed is the 
fruit of thy womb.” 

Mary chilled in fear—was it a warning, a sign that 
Mamma would die if she brought on a miscarriage, die in 
sin, a lost soul? Was that what was in the air, the souls 
of the girls and women that Mr. Plykas saw brought into 
Bellevue to die—to die in other hospitals all over the world, 
everywhere where there was hospitals? Thousands of them 
now, the air alive with their cries. 

Mary decided to see Mr. Carew—and tell him every¬ 
thing. At the door of the Vicarage, her courage failed her. 
No use to try—the minute she would open her mouth to tell 
Mr. Carew about Mamma’s trouble, her tongue would 
lock on her at the shame of it. And what good of it? 
The Church did not believe Mamma could get married, 
not even if she had a dozen bastard babies with their father 
willing to marry her. The Church did not believe in mar¬ 
riage after divorce any more than it believed in abortions. 

Again the girl went back and sat on the steps of the 
Chapel. From St. Botolph’s, she looked across the street 
at St. Kevin’s, the Catholic church. Over there they had 
the same idea, no remarriage for divorced people. But 
the Methodists had a different opinion, so had the Baptists, 
all the other churches, too, Congregationalists, oh, so 


274 


A ROOF 


many more than Mary could recall. Could all those other 
religions be wrong? How did Episcopalians and Catholics 
get that way, thinking they could go against the majority? 

Mary went into the Chapel. She would pray for a divorce 
for Mamma so she could marry Mr. Plykas. But Mr. Carew 
often said we must not expect God to do the impossible for 
us, she thought. That being that, no sense in asking Jesus 
for a divorce—Mamma had to be divorced in a law court, 
not in heaven. She could not be divorced in New York 
either, only in Reno. No sense either to ask Jesus to take 
Mamma to Reno on the back of an angel and feed her on 
manna while she was there—miracles like that don’t hap¬ 
pen these days. It would take three hundred dollars to cover 
the Reno expenses. Still, Mary could not see her mother 
returning to the Neighborhood with the baby born too 
soon after the marriage. There was more than the divorce 
to negotiate. Mamma must stay in Reno until the baby 
was born and return by way of Providence and leave the 
child with Mr. Plykas’s sister. Later on, they could adopt 
the baby, claiming it was the sister’s child. With all the 
complications attached, Mary felt she must have five hun¬ 
dred dollars. Miss Elliot would think nothing of giving that 
amount away, nor would she take on because Mamma was 
in trouble—that was Miss Elliot, a very broad-minded 
person. 

"Dear Jesus,” Mary prayed, "nothing is impossible 
to You, but I am not asking You to do the impossible, 
all I want is for Miss Elliot to improve in health quickly, 
very quickly, dear Jesus, for it is showing on Mamma 
and she must get away at once, before the neighbors find 
it out on her, which may be any day now. As You know 
all things, You know Mamma’s trouble, and You know 




275 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

it will come back on us, on little Connie and Marge in 
particular, very apt to make them like the whores of 
Scriptures if they have to live with other children looking 
down on them on account of Mamma having a baby and 
Papa gone for two years. Not being respectable any more, 
the twins wouldn’t act respectable, they’ll take up with 
low company, going to the bad in no time. It means sav¬ 
ing the souls of the twins—two souls lost, if Mamma’s 
false step isn’t covered from the eyes of the world. As 
You know, Mamma must get divorced in Reno, the baby 
must be born in Reno, left with Mr. Plykas’s sister in 
Providence, to be adopted, later on, after they are mar¬ 
ried. All this can be managed with five hundred dollars, 
the price of two little girls’ souls, now sweet and inno¬ 
cent. Dear Jesus, You Who died on the cross to save 
souls for heaven, please save Connie and Marge’s souls by 
improving Miss Elliot’s health at once. Dear kind Jesus, 
I will go to the sanitarium next Sunday afternoon, right 
after Benediction. I know You will have her cured by that 
time so she can see me. I ask this in Jesus’ name, amen.” 

Mary left the Chapel. She had prayed with faith, a 
prayer that would be answered. If Peter, or whatever 
Apostle it was, had had real faith, he could have walked 
on water with Jesus, when Our Lord asked him to join 
him for a stroll on the River Jordan. Or was it on the 
Sea of Galilee where Jesus was walking at the time? Mary, 
years ago, a little kid then, had tried to walk on water, 
trusting on the last Sunday School’s lesson. But she had 
sunk, hitting her head an awful bump on the edge of the 
bathtub. A case of not having enough faith. But asking 
Our Lord to improve Miss Elliot’s health, that was so 
easy to pray for with unfailing faith, asking something 


276 


A ROOF 


so possible. Her faith was like a rock—Miss Elliott was 
getting better, she was improving, every minute. Sun¬ 
day afternoon the doctors would say Miss Elliot could see 
visitors. It was faith, faith that can move mountains. 

Mrs. Boots was in a bath of steaming water when her 
daughter returned. "Get out of that tub, this minute!” 
Mary commanded. "Mamma, you’ve got to stop this; it’s 
a mortal sin, next to murder.” 

"What are you saying, dearie? I might as well be deaf, 
my ears all ringing with the quinine.” 

"Mamma, you’ve got to turn over a new leaf, and stop 
all these sinful intentions. Something wonderful has 
come over me, almost a miracle. In a way, I’ve had a 
revelation. I’ve been in the Chapel praying, Mr. Cohen 
let me off for the evening.” 

Mrs. Boots caught the spirit in the midst of Mary’s re¬ 
cital of her prayer. She got to her knees, hands raised, 
asking Our Lord’s forgiveness, there in the tub of hot 
water. Then to prove her faith and good intentions, she 
flushed the rest of the quinine capsules down the toilet. 
Then, a long cry for her sins, heart-felt repentance. It 
was so wonderful, like being born again. They prayed 
themselves to sleep, Mary and her mother, repeating the 
Lord’s Prayer, over and over. 

The spirit of grace was with them both in the morning, 
unbroken faith and trust. A very different day at the 
Annex, not a single throb of hatred in Mary’s heart for 
Dr. Foster, much as the she-devil deserved it. Only patience, 
long-suffering, the true Christian attitude toward one’s 
enemy. Even when the Doctor bumped her elbow and 
almost fainted in pain, Mary did not inwardly rejoice. 
She was sorry as she pretended to be, doing everything she 
could for the woman. When Mrs. Cromwell appeared 


277 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

on the scene, Mary thought kindly of her, which in itself 
was a miracle. Then presently, Dr. Foster began another 
hunt for her briefcase, missing since yesterday. Mary 
knew where the briefcase was, and she had intended to say 
nothing about it. The Doctor, in a fluster at the time, had 
laid it down on top a radiator in the girls’ gym; it slipped, 
falling between the radiator and the wall. It might have 
lain there until the steam pipes were gone over in the 
fall, just before the heat would be turned on. A good lesson 
for old Tha, she was so hard on others for mislaying things 
or any such human errors. But today, Mary, in a state 
of spiritual grace, saw it differently—she would return 
good for evil. So she went in search of the briefcase and 
brought it back to the Doctor. 

"Where did you find it?” asked Tha. 

"Behind a radiator in the girls’ gym.” Mary took the 
hard unfamiliar road of truth when a little fib could 
have won the day for her. 

"How did you happen to look for it there?” 

"When you laid it down yesterday, I saw it fall behind 
the radiator.” 

"A very strange procedure, Miss Boots. You saw my 
briefcase fall—and you said nothing about it at the time, 
nor did you reveal where it was when I searched for it, 
later in the day. Please explain this, Miss Boots.” 

"I acted that way, Dr. Foster, because I was in an evil 
state of mind at the time.” 

"An evil state of mind! What do you mean, Miss 
Boots?” 

"I was angry with you.” 

"What reason, Miss Boots, had you for this anger toward 
me?” 

"I didn’t think you had been treating me fairly.” 


278 


A ROOF 


"Do you still think so?” 

"I am trying to think the best of you, Dr. Foster, that 
you mean to be fair with me—that you are a fair-minded 
person. I want to feel that all the trouble comes from the 
fact that we do not understand each other.” 

"If this is your state of mind, Miss Boots, you are out 
of place on my staff.” 

At that, old Tha went into a huddle with Mrs. Cromwell 
in the side room where the Big Boss had established her 
Ann headquarters. Mary put her ear to the panel of the 
door. 

Tha charged the Boots girl with stupidity, gross igno¬ 
rance, crudity, a backstairs attitude. But Mrs. Cromwell 
didn’t agree with her any further than crudity and the 
backstairs attitude, whatever that could be. 

"Cornelia, that girl must be dismissed at once.” 

"No, Martha, I cannot dismiss her. There is a contract, 
the Goodrich Memorial is legally obligated to employ the 
Boots girl for fifty weeks at a weekly salary of twenty 
dollars.” 

"A most strange procedure, I must say, Cornelia.” 

"Martha, you know Hector Ramsey. It is all Hector’s 
doing. When Simeon Goodrich was dying, he started 
to write a check for the Boots girl. He wanted her to have 
a thousand dollars because she reminded him of his daugh¬ 
ter, Ada. But Simeon died before the check was signed. 
From that moment, Hector was incorrigible, absolutely 
determined the girl should have the money. I fought it 
persistently. Finally, we reached a compromise when I 
consented to make her a staff worker.” 

At this point in the conference, Mary heard approaching 
steps. She got away from the door in a hurry, just in time 


279 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

to cover her snooping, looking perfectly innocent when 
Mr. Buckner came into the office. About five minutes 
more, and Tha appeared. "Mrs. Cromwell wishes to speak 
to you, Miss Boots,” she said, then called to Mr. Buckner 
to turn on a fan, her face as red as fire. 

"Mary,” began the Big Boss, "you know Miss Burstall, 
the librarian, is resigning to get married. I am taking 
you to the Memorial and wish you to fit yourself for the 
librarian’s position. Report to Miss Burstall at ten o’clock 
tomorrow morning. Miss Burstall will train you for your 
future duties.” 

Home in high glee went the Boots girl—the relief to 
get away from Dr. Foster and her hot flushes! Thank God 
for a legal contract, for Judge Ramsey, for Mr. Good¬ 
rich and the thousand dollars he left her! The library job 
wasn’t so hot, the hours something fierce. But what did 
that matter? Only a few weeks more and everything 
would be jake—Miss Elliot well, back on the job again 
and Mary with her. 

The library had a very high ceiling, cool on the hottest 
days. With things in such uncertain shape at the Ann, 
Mrs. Cromwell was not getting away for the summer. 
Miss Burstall said that Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Cromwell’s uncle, 
claimed that he liked to sit in the library because it was 
so cool there. She also said she was worried about the 
old gentleman, who was drinking very heavily of late, 
something his niece would never stand for if she knew it. 
Another thing that worried Miss Burstall, was that some 
gold-digger would get hold of the old man and marry him 
for his money. Twice he had asked the librarian to marry 
him. But, Miss Burstall said, she wouldn’t think of such a 


280 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

thing for two good reasons—she loved her fiance, she had 
such high regard for Mrs. Cromwell. Of course, all this 
was strictly confidential; and, as the librarian said, she 
would never have so confided in Mary if she did not know 
she was talking to a very discreet girl with the name of 
knowing how to hold her tongue. 

The library job was a cinch, any fool was equal to it, 
nothing but keeping a correct file of cards. Miss Burstall 
was quitting next Monday, positively sure that she would 
leave a competent successor behind her. 

Sunday came, and Mary still in a state of grace; since 
last Tuesday night, not a single fib from her tongue, not 
an evil throb in her heart, not an unkind thought in her 
head—a true Christian, living up to the highest Christian 
principles. After Benediction, Mary took the train to 
Chappaqua, then a taxi to Miss Elliot’s sanitarium. The 
fare was simply outrageous—three dollars! But no other 
way to get there, not a bus nor trolley in that direction. 
It was a beautiful spot, a woodland park surrounded by a 
high fence, you drove in through two big masonry pil¬ 
lars after the guard opened the grilled gate for you. The 
sanitarium was of gray stone and would have looked like a 
castle if its walls were not all aflutter with striped awnings 
for every window. 

But the clerk in the sanitarium office was a bonehead, 
no idea of what was doing in the institution. He was so ig¬ 
norant of things that he said Miss Elliot was not allowed 
to have callers. 

"Please send the manager to me, I want to talk to the 
manager,” Mary demanded. 

"Very well,” the clerk told her; "please wait a few 
minutes and Dr. Grinnell will be down and see you.” 


Chapter Twenty-One 


Two big stone posts, an iron gate between them, the 
gate closed. A man in gray uniform on the other side 
of the gate, his eyes on Mary. Through the iron grill, a 
stretch of park and, farther on, the sanitarium, gray walled, 
red roofed. The awnings were red striped, they fluttered 
in the wind. Most of them were lifted now, the sun al¬ 
most set, and night was coming on. The air had chilled, 
blowing cool on the head. Mary lifted her hand to her 
hair. Where was her hat? 

Yes, her hat—she must have lost it, perhaps when she 
tried to get past the head doctor in the sanitarium office, 
convinced that he was a liar when he said nobody could 
see Miss Elliot. What a scene she had made, the fight she 
put up—her faith that strong in Jesus. But they hustled her 
out of the building and off the premises, and she must 
have lost her hat in the crazy struggle. 

A high fence stretched from the two stone posts, 
completely enclosing the sanitarium grounds—a heavy 
wire fence, topped by barbs. Inside the fence, inside the 


281 


282 


A ROOF 


gray building, was Miss Elliot, still very sick, not a soul 
allowed to see her. And this was faith, the faith that moved 
mountains! To be thrown down like this, deserted by 
Jesus! What wonderful faith it had been, the strength 
of it to nerve her to make a fight to get to Miss Elliot! 
To think of it, God, Who could do all things, had done 
nothing to cure a sick woman. And near a week to do it 
in—from Tuesday evening to late Sunday afternoon! Nor 
had He been asked for a miracle, nor anything impossible. 
No excuse for His failure. If Mary had asked for five 
hundred dollars, dropped down into her lap, direct from 
heaven, it would have been different. 

Mary hitch-hiked back to Chappaqua in two lifts, both 
from gentlemen. But the older one wasn’t so gentlemanly 
—he got fresh, the brass of him to say she must lose her 
hat with him next Sunday! The young man was all right, 
he made no reference to her bare head and roughed-up 
appearance. But it was perfectly safe, the road packed 
with Sunday traffic. Quite necessary, too, not enough money 
for the taxi fare back to the railroad station. 

While waiting for the train, Mary spent her two quarters 
and three dimes in the telephone booth. At Mr. Richards’ 
apartment, they said he wasn’t there but gave a number 
that could reach him. He wasn’t so keen at first on the 
wire, a little offish, saying he had no further interest in 
insurance. 

"Here, too,” said Mary, "I’ve gone out of the insurance 
business myself, not enough money in it.” 

"What are you doing now?” he asked. 

"Nothing in particular.” 

"I see, you are resting, taking precious good care of your 
weak heart.” 


283 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"My heart is all cured, nothing the matter with it any 
more.” 

"Congratulations! ” 

"Remember what you said to me about my heart? Don’t 
you remember, you said if it ever got cured, I must give 
you a ring?” 

"Yes, it sounds like me,” Mr. Richards admitted. 

"So I’m doing as requested. My heart is cured, and 
here’s my little ring.” 

"And the husband, Mary—you love him still?” 

"I’ve forgotten he’s ever lived, Mr. Richards.” 

"Now this thing begins to look more interesting. How 
about it, Mary—dinner with me, very soon?” 

"Yes, this week, Mr. Richards, any time you say.” 

"I’m rather tied up for the week, unfortunately.” 

"The next week?” 

"Tied up again. But how about Sunday? I always keep 
my Sunday free.” 

"That’s lovely, Mr. Richards—this Sunday week, it’s a 
date. Where will we meet?” 

"How about my town apartment?” 

"That couldn’t be nicer, and when do you want me to 
come?” 

"About eight?” 

"Yes, Mr. Richards, at eight—and you’ll be seeing me. 
Good-bye,” and Mary hung up. 

The leisurely moving train steaming along the single 
track in the leisurely manner of the Chappaqua railway 
service left Mary ample time for thought. She had done 
it, she told herself—yes, she did it while she had the nerve 
to do it. And she would go through with it when the time 
came—sell herself, soul and body, to Mr. Richards. Be- 


284 


A ROOF 


tween now and next Sunday there would be no weaken¬ 
ing, no back crawling. If Jesus could throw Mary Boots 
down, Mary Boots could throw Jesus down. She was 
going to show Him something, going in for sin in a big 
way, the most sinful way, out for the money there was 
in it. 

But about a baby? Would she get caught? Would she 
have to go to Dr. Franklin yet? Oh, God, if she only 
knew the real ropes—knew more than the things that 
nasty-talking girls say about preventives! Mamma said 
she had relied on vinegar and it wasn’t any good. But 
Sid Silverstein had said something more to the point, Sid 
said only a bonehead boob ever got a lady into trouble. 
Mr. Richards was neither a boob nor a bonehead; and, as 
women seemed Mr. Richards’s specialty, he would never 
be a bonehead boob where a girl was concerned, and a green 
girl at that. No doubt, his apartment was prepared in this 
regard—he must have everything in right supply and order, 
sanitary and well equipped as a dentist. Oh, God, that sex 
had to come to her in this way, and not how she had 
dreamed it for herself—her wonderful husband, her beau¬ 
tiful home, perfect love, and darling chubby babies! 

"And you got the money from Miss Elliot?” Effie asked 
as Mary came into the living room. 

"No, Mamma, not yet. But I’ll get it before long.” 

"You found Miss Elliot much improved?” 

"Yes, very much. But say nothing about her health 
to any of the neighbors, and mind that you keep mum 
about me going to see her.” 

"Was she surprised—taken aback something terrible— 
that it could be your mother?” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 285 

"No, she didn’t seem to be. She’s accustomed to such 
things, like all social workers.” 

"Mary dearie, what a miracle! Why don’t all the world 
realize it, the power of faith that moves mountains! Dearie, 
we put our trust in Jesus and He did not desert us. Let’s 
kneel, right here now, and pray out our thanks to heaven.” 

"No, Mamma, I’m tired. I’ll pray later. I’m going to 
bed now. I got a hard day ahead of me tomorrow; the new- 
job, you know.” 

"But, dearie, that isn’t showing proper gratitude to Our 
dear Lord and the miracle He worked for us.” 

"He’s going to know how I feel about it. I’m going 
to show Him.” 

Mary went to her room. Mrs. Boots got down on her 
knees, praying with her elbows resting on a chair. 

What a job, the librarian’s, on at ten in the morning, 
an hour off at noon, back at one and on to six, back at 
seven-thirty and continuing to ten! No Saturdays off! 
A sixty-three hour work-week! Just stuck at the librarian’s 
desk, nothing to do, planked on your fanny. With the 
kids all in summer camp, the grown folks going to the air- 
conditioned movies, nobody to speak of was reading 
books in the summer. A library, of all places to be stuck 
in with nothing to turn your hand or your head to! Oh, 
God, just to have a typewriter and stencils to cut again, 
anything but being idle! Then, too, this job meant giving 
up the work at Cohen’s, a clear loss of twelve a week. 

Monday, seven books were taken out. Tuesday, eleven. 
Wednesday, ditto. Thursday, twelve. Friday, three. Sat¬ 
urday, fourteen. Was it any wonder Mary was thinking? 


286 


A ROOF 


And what she had to think about! Nothing on her mind 
but Sunday coming, getting nearer and nearer, her date 
with Mr. Richards. 

At last it was Sunday, and Mary told her mother she 
was going to Chapel. She took a long walk instead. 
She was done with Chapel, she was done with prayer, she 
was done with religion—and let Jesus put that in His pipe 
and smoke it. And the week behind her and the lies she 
had told, only keeping to the truth when advantageously 
necessary! Nor was there a kind thought in her heart for 
anybody, either—only hatred, spite, thinking the very 
worst of every human creature. As a special favor from 
the devil, Mr. Carew was in Canada, taking a month’s 
vacation. No danger from that quarter, in case Mary 
should weaken and see the Vicar. 

But so hard not to weaken as Sunday went on and the 
clock kept getting nearer to evening. They say it is 
hard to be good—of all cock-eyed sayings, that was the 
screwiest. Then too, they say one’s nature has a lot to do 
with it, whether you are cold or hot-blooded. That’s more 
hooey—the more natural passion a girl has in her, the 
more particular she is about it, the harder to sell herself 
and get down to a money proposition. Think of passion 
and Mr. Richards when all her nature turned to Lance! 

Five o’clock now, time to be getting ready. Mary went 
to her room. On her bed, she laid them out in order—the 
crepe evening dress, Miss Elliot’s present; the lace-trimmed 
satin step-ins Lily gave her for Christmas, the two-way 
stretch girdle that hadn’t been worn since laundered, a 
fresh pair of gauze stockings. What a tragic subject for 
a movie, a pure girl dressing herself to get ruined! Her 
nice things, too, would be ruined when Mr. Richards would 


287 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

tear them off of her, him that raging in lust and low pas¬ 
sion, like a wild beast. How often had she watched that 
same scene in the movies, or, at least, the beginning of such 
a scene! And how little had she ever dreamed that it would 
yet have to happen to her! That was the saddest part of 
it all, that it had to happen, that there was no other way 
to save herself and save the family. 

Yet, no matter how much Mary was to suffer, she would 
take it on the chin, not a whimper out of her, nothing to 
annoy Mr. Richards. He must be kept in pleasant humor— 
or else good-bye to five hundred dollars, not that he would 
hand it to her in so much currency. 

Now how about the money? Mary’s thoughts went back 
to the balcony of the gorgeous restaurant where she had 
dined with Mr. Richards and the memory of his taking 
notice of the bracelet she wore. It was the white gold 
and sapphire piece of jewelry that that lovely girl, Miss 
Trumbell, had let Mary wear for an entire week. But Mr. 
Richards had something grander in view when he said he 
would like to put a platinum and diamond band on any 
wrist as exquisite as hers. With bracelets very much on 
her mind the last week, what was more natural than 
taking a stroll along Fifth Avenue with an eye to jewelers’ 
windows? The kind mentioned by Mr. Richards certainly 
were expensive, some of them costing as high as six thou¬ 
sand dollars. With that man’s taste, nothing would be 
too good with him—he’d go the limit, six thousand dol¬ 
lars meaning nothing to him. 

Her clothes laid out, Mary gave her hands a flawless mani¬ 
cure, all but the liquid polish which would be applied 
after her bath. Mary considered for a minute, then shaved 
the hair off her legs. Fast women were very particular 


288 


A ROOF 


about everything. Yes, and the bottle of bath salts Kathleen 
Cohen gave her on her last birthday, still untouched in the 
top bureau drawer. The entire bottle was emptied into 
the bath. Mary lay in the tepid fragrance for fifteen 
minutes, so powerful it smarted, but all the better, a 
proof it got into the pores. 

Dressed, groomed, scented, Mary decided not to take 
the sweaty, hot subway. She hailed a passing taxi, a 
frightful expense but worth it, to arrive cool and sweet 
in Mr. Richards’s apartment. God, going alone to a 
bachelor penthouse! Of course, it was a penthouse, they 
always lived in penthouses, a fact so well known that the 
word has an evil sound. 

Mary was weakening, she felt it, her courage failing 
her. No, no, she couldn’t weaken now. Where were her 
guts gone to? Was she going to let herself be sunk? Would 
she turn piker at the last minute? Would she be the girl 
whose mother had a bastard baby? The trouble was the 
meter, clicking, clicking like it was yelling whore and 
strumpet at her. No, the meter was only clicking—what 
it seemed to say was her own jitters. It wasn’t God trying 
to warn her, yelling bad words from the Bible at her. 
Or, if He were warning her, let Him realize it was all His 
own fault. He had been given His chance and He hadn’t 
done a thing. Nor would she lose her soul either, not even 
to spite Him. You can have your cake and eat it, if you 
follow the right Christian formula, a matter of sinning 
and repenting. The repentance, Mary felt, would be 
prompt, just as soon as she had the bracelet. But the 
price she had to pay, alone with a Turk-natured man in a 
penthouse, almost like being with Bluebeard, who was 
also a Turk, judging from his pictures. Of course, Mr. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 289 

Richards didn’t kill girls, he only killed their souls, put¬ 
ting them on the primrose path to hell. 

The elevator in the Park Avenue apartment house stopped 
to let Mary off at the tenth floor—it was not a penthouse 
after all, merely one of other suites off the wide hall, a 
beautifully carpeted hall, its walls hung with rich-looking 
tapestries. 

A Jap man opened the door. His lips moved, he must 
have said something, but Mary heard nothing but her own 
heart, beating in her ears. She tried to speak—the breath 
did not come, her throat seemed frozen. Weakness, weak¬ 
ness of body, not intention, feet stuck to the rug, her knees 
all atremble. The Jap man took her things and when he 
returned he bowed her into a room where Mr. Richards 
lay on a couch, surrounded by Sunday papers, strewn all 
about him, a Siamese cat snuggled in the crook of each 
elbow. The cats leaped to the floor at the sight of Mary. 
They backed to the wall, side by side as if facing an enemy. 
Mr. Richards wore a dressing robe, looking more like 
Adolphe Menjou than ever. He was now on his feet, shak¬ 
ing hands, quite friendly. 

The Jap man placed a chair, she sank into it. Mr. Rich¬ 
ards sat, not lay, on the couch this time. He said a few 
things—about the weather mostly. Mary answered in 
murmurs—her best effort—her throat, her tongue simply 
gone back on her. Her head, too, all jumbled, ears ring¬ 
ing. Neither could she see straight, everything bleary 
but the cats and Mr. Richards’s face and smile, more sar¬ 
castic than pleasant. His white teeth which made him look 
all the more evil when he smiled, a stretchy smile, and 
so superior, a fun she wasn’t up to sharing with him. 

"I told you this was my one lazy day, Mary. I’m long 


290 A ROOF 

on Sabbath observance. With six days to play in, I don’t 
get why some fellows will play on Sunday.” 

Mary wanted to say that most people have to work 
six days and are glad for the employment, if they can get 
it. But her throat was still tight, so she said nothing. 

The Jap man came in with a telephone on a loose cord 
which he attached to a wall socket. Mr. Richards talked to 
Southampton with a lady’s voice on the wire; and, finally, 
he dated himself for a party, three weeks ahead. The Jap 
made note of the date, probably to see it was kept when the 
time came. 

“An exciting date,” Mr. Richards smiled to Mary as the 
telephone was taken away; “and it’s not on Sunday. I’ll 
have no excitement on the Sabbath, my one rule of recti¬ 
tude, strictly adhered to.” 

Mary breathed freer—Mr. Richards did not carry on 
with women on Sundays, probably a health precaution, 
resting his nervous system as it were. They would just get 
better acquainted this evening, the worst to follow, a little 
later. Then, he rose. Quite herself now, she discovered 
he was fully dressed under his robe, not in pajamas, as she 
had suspected. 

“We’ll get out of this litter,” he said, “you’ll find it 
tidier in the library.” 

At the library door, he excused himself, saying he’d 
be back in a minute. As Mary entered the room, the first 
thing she saw was a full length portrait of Jesus, propped 
against the wall, as if it were just purchased and waited to 
be hung. But she was not going to let the picture make 
her weaken. No, it could not weaken her, her feeling so 
changed now in regard to Jesus, no faith in Him what¬ 


ever. 


291 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Mary turned her attention to the painting: it was up to 
her, she felt, to say something arty about it this evening. 
While this picture gave a different view of Jesus, it was 
like as another pea from the same pod as the painting Mr. 
Anselmo gave Mrs. Cromwell, an acknowledgment for all 
she had done for Wops in the Neighborhood. He was very 
wealthy, a banker. This past winter, when Mrs. Crom¬ 
well hung the painting in the Mem library, she gave two 
art talks on it to Mary’s class in art appreciation. As it was 
unsigned, she said it was the work of a talented but un¬ 
known painter. She traced it back to its school and period, 
showing how a painting can date itself and the locality 
where it was painted. Nothing like a good memory, 
Mary told herself, the way things could stick in her mind, 
no matter how uninteresting! 

"You seem more cheerful now,” Mr. Richards smiled 
on his return. He had only put his coat on, not a dinner 
suit, nor the white short jacket so much worn in movie 
evening scenes of life among the high-hats. 

"Sit down, Mary, we’ll have a little talk,” he said. 

They sat. They faced each other. 

"Now, Mary, as man to man, tell me, what is it?” 

"What is what? I don’t get you, Mr. Richards.” 

"This jam you are in?” 

"I in a jam, Mr. Richards? I’m in no jam whatever.” 

"Oh, yes, you are! Mary, you’re in a hell of a jam.” 

"You’ve got me all wrong, Mr. Richards, you certainly 
have.” 

"Mary, you’re a liar.” 

"Whatever in the world can I be lying about? Such a 
funny thing to tell me, Mr. Richards!” 

"Still, I say you’re a liar.” 


292 


A ROOF 


"What makes you have such queer notions about me?” 

"Mary, you have miscast yourself.” 

"Miscast myself for what, Mr. Richards?” 

"For the role you are attempting.” 

"What role can you ever mean, Mr. Richards?” 

"You know damned well what I mean.” 

"I certainly don’t get you, Mr. Richards.” 

"Mary, some women, God bless ’em, are born for that 
role. Others, damn ’em, are not.” 

"I haven’t the slightest idea of what you are talking 
about.” 

"Mary, you are not only a liar, you are a bum actress. 
Furthermore, you are dumb; and, I regret to have to state, 
you are not strictly on the level.” 

"Why do you say that, Mr. Richards?” 

"Haven’t I just seen your poor performance?” 

"I don’t know what you mean by my performance.” 

"The less said of that performance, the better. Take it 
from me, Mary, it was terrific, the worst ever. What did 
you think I was waiting to enact the minute you appeared 
in my apartment?” 

"Oh, Mr. Richards, the queer things you say!” 

"Oh, Miss Boots, the queer things you think!” 

"Oh, I think you’re wonderful, Mr. Richards! You’ve 
no idea how I fell for you, how you’ve been on my mind, 
every minute, since we had dinner together. I’m crazy 
about you.” 

"Bad acting, Mary, I’ve never seen worse.” 

"Worse, how worse?” 

"Parthenic, Mary, basically parthenic.” 

"What is parthenic?” 

"A name the Greeks had for it.” 

How true it was, what Mrs. de Costa said about her 


AGAINST THE RAIN 293 

stock-in-trade, that it took years to learn it! In his sober 
mind, Mr. Richards had no yen for a girl who wasn’t al¬ 
ready a bitch, born and bred. Just like it had been in the 
restaurant, he wouldn’t get going until he was liquored up 
on champagne. Oh, God, if she only knew some of the 
tricks, the dark secrets which hussies kept strictly to them¬ 
selves! Ought she go at him now, ought she hang on Mr. 
Richards’s neck and kiss him? 

Mary acted on the prompting. But he seized her hands 
as they neared his shoulders. 

"Oh, no you don’t, Mary; Papa knows ’em when he sees 
’em—and you are not one of ’em.” 

"But, Mr. Richards, wait till you see more of me— 
you’re not on to me yet.” 

"Sit down, Mary, behave yourself, be natural.” 

She sat. She thought. As she thought, her eyes lighted 
on the painting. Could high art be Mr. Richards’s hobby? 
Well, at least, Mrs. de Costa had given one good tip away 
when she said that women like her had to be connected 
with men’s hobbies, in fact, a part of them. Some tip, all 
right—and she, Mary Boots, was on the ground floor when 
it came to art appreciation. 

The girl took a deep breath—and waded into deep 
waters. "Do you know, Mr. Richards, this picture here in¬ 
trigues me.” 

Intrigue was the right word, Mary felt, one of Miss 
Trumbell’s favorites. "The more I look at it,” she went 
on, "the more I feel it is the work of some forgotten Flem¬ 
ish painter.” 

That was the stuff to hand him, Mrs. Cromwell’s exact 
words when she gave the talks about Mr. Anselmo’s gift 
picture. 

"Mr. Richards, if my opinion counts any, I’d say that 


294 


A ROOF 


you have a gem here. Look at that forceful brush work, 
look at that solid color. Everything points to one thing, 
and you can’t tell me that this picture doesn’t date back to 
the middle Seventeenth Century. And isn’t it too bad that 
the poor artist didn’t sign it? But, then again, by not being 
signed, the picture is all the more intriguing.” 

The blind man shot the lark. In a moment, Mr. Richards 
was another man, all interest, all ready to talk to Mary. 
"I came across this picture last winter, quite by accident,” 
he recounted. *T was in Maryland at the time, keen on the 
scent for clocks with wooden works, a little hobby I have— 
you find one, occasionally, in the old Moravian settlements. 
Later on this evening, I’ll show you a few of my collection. 
I’ve a few here. But I keep most of my things at Green¬ 
wich; I’ve a little place there, you know. But to get back 
to the picture. Near Thurmont, not far from Frederick— 
Barbara Frietchie’s town, you know—I chanced into a 
Moravian parsonage—and this picture. There it was in the 
parson’s parlor. The parson said it had been there as long 
as he could remember. The oldest inhabitant had the same 
story. I made a fair offer for it. The parson called in the 
elders of the congregation. They listened—non-committal 
listeners. The church needed a new roof; but, farmerlike, 
the elders were suspicious—so suspicious that they called in 
a Baltimore art dealer. As I had offered a price above the 
appraisement of the Baltimore connoisseur, I got the picture 
finally. It arrived here only yesterday.” 

Mary marvelled at her latest discovery—older men cared 
more for culture, less for the small town handicap in a girl. 
Alda meant nothing to Mr. Richards, if the girl from Alda 
had art appreciation. She was going over big with him, in no 
time now she would have the bracelet with Mamma on her 



295 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

way to Reno. Just as well get the first part of it over this 
evening, while she was all fixed for it in fresh undies and 
sweet in bath salts. Once her appeal began to work, Mr. 
Richards would forget all his notions about what sort of 
women could take it and what sort couldn’t. The thing 
to do was to get good and plastered—the less conscious she 
was, the less suffering in shame and bodily torture. When 
the champagne appeared at dinner, wouldn’t she go to it, 
putting it down like water! 

He showed his clocks. They weren’t much, but he 
thought they were, cocksure he was giving Mary a rare 
treat. He had another prize piece from the Moravian set¬ 
tlement. Believe it or not, but the prize was an old platter. 
As tableware, certainly nothing to write home about. 
Imagine a big dish you’d get for twenty cents at a Good¬ 
rich store, scrub it with cleaning powder for an hour, coat 
it with grease, bake it in a hot oven for another hour. It 
even had several chips and a small crack. But how he held 
the old thing in one hand, petting it with the other! 

The Jap came in with cocktails, two glasses on the tray, 
no shaker visible. No champagne either with the dinner, 
no wine, nothing but food. Mr. Richards was now talking 
Oklahoma, thinking it was Mary’s country. “By the way, 
do you like 'Cimarron’?” he asked. 

My God, Mary asked herself, what was cimarron, some¬ 
thing to eat, or something to drink? 

“A great story,” he resumed his own topic, and was off 
on a discussion about the merits of the book. 

Oh, it was a book—how awful if she had taken a risk 
and said she never ate it, or that it didn’t agree with her! 
Of all things, books were the hardest, Mary felt, so many 
books and every book so long, new ones coming out all the 


296 


A ROOF 


time, no keeping up with that kind of culture. Of the books 
Stanley had given her, she had read a few in part, but re¬ 
membered little of them, her mind seldom on the reading. 
Neither could she discuss magazine stories with Mr. Rich¬ 
ards. Since she had gone on the Ann staff, Mary realized 
her taste in magazines was all wet and something of a joke 
with more advanced people. One proposition was a sure bet, 
the sooner she got him off books, the better. In some way 
she must get the conversation around to French and make 
another hit, as big a wow as her remark on the Flemish 
school painting. 

"Mr. Richards,” Mary sailed boldly in, "to me you seem 
a very travelled person.” 

"Why, because I’ve been in Maryland?” 

"I mean further than that, I mean abroad, taking trips 
over to Europe.” 

"Occasionally, yes.” 

"And I know as well as anything that you’re crazy over 
Paris.” 

"Not particularly.” 

"But you’ve been there lots of times, haven’t you?” 

"Sometimes, yes.” 

"Parlez vous frangaise , Monsieur Richards?” 

"If necessary, yes.” 

"I love the language, don’t you? Parlez frangaise avec 
moi, s’il vous plait , Monsieur Richards” 

"Must I, Mary? It’s a warm evening, you know, and 
Sunday is my day of rest.” 

Springing her French on him was a sorry mistake, Mary 
sensed. He wasn’t talkative now, not at all in the nice mood 
that came over him when he began to tell about the painting. 
Best get him back on paintings again. 


297 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Mr. Richards,” she began again, "I suppose you don’t 
think so much of the Metropolitan Museum, not after all 
the art you saw in Europe?” 

"Certainly I do,” he said—and said no more, he just 
went on eating in silence, like she was getting a pain in the 
neck to him. Maybe cats were more a hobby with him. 

"You’ve got two lovely Siamese, Mr. Richards. What 
are their names?” 

"Eng and Chang,” he said and revived, quite pleasant 
again. He told a lot of their tricks. The one he seemed to 
enjoy the most was on himself. He had guests at Green¬ 
wich, he said, to a late Sunday supper and a large planked 
salmon had just been brought to the table. Just at that 
moment, a neighbor’s house was reported on fire. A general 
rush from the table to the veranda followed. In about five 
minutes, losing interest in the fire, the company returned 
to supper. The first guest into the dining room saw two 
disappearing tails at the opposite door. But what the cats 
had done to the planked fish! They had cleaned away its 
upper half to the back-bone, as neatly as any surgeon could 
have cut it. Not a mark of their feet on the table, not a 
fiber of fish on the plank either, a dainty job, not a dint 
nor sign on the molded aspic which surrounded the salmon, 
not a decoration touched nor disturbed. They were not seen 
for two days after, nor could anyone find where they hid 
themselves. He sure was crazy over his cats, a topic that 
engaged him until the Jap man said coffee was served in the 
library. 

As cats were trumps, Mary asked to see them again, any¬ 
thing to keep Mr. Richards pleasant. 

"No, Mary, I’d rather not. Eng and Chang are unsocial 
little devils.” 


I 


298 


A ROOF 


"They seemed sociable enough with you, Mr. Richards.” 

"Yes, one-man felines.” 

"I’d love to pet them, Mr. Richards.” 

"Sorry, Mary, but they would resent it strenuously.” 

"You love animals, don’t you, Mr. Richards?” 

"I like my own, yes.” His voice died down on the sen¬ 
tence, as if he were tired of talking and listening. 

A silence. The Jap came in and took the coffee things 
away. More silence. Mary braced herself—it was now or 
never. Some other woman had got a strong hold on him 
since they dined together on the restaurant balcony. She 
crossed the room quickly, perching herself on the arm of 
Mr. Richards’s chair. "Remember in your car, when you 
wanted to measure my ankle?” she asked him. 

"Mary, you have rare ankles.” 

"Like them?” 

"Who doesn’t?” 

"You like mine?” 

"I like all rare ankles.” 

But he didn’t try to measure them. He rose and said 
they’d go out on the terrace. But the terrace wasn’t private 
—there were three of them, separated by railings and boxed 
cypress. One terrace was unoccupied, on the other were 
two old gentlemen. "How’s Lady Frederick getting on?” 
one of them asked Mr. Richards. 

How fancy they were, hobnobbing with titled people! 

Walking toward the old gentleman, Mr. Richards said 
he was up with Lady Frederick all last night. My God, he 
wasn’t even covering her, and she with a title! Mary could 
not catch the rest of the conversation, but she felt it must 
be something awful, and what a dirty mind the old man 
had, keen to listen to it! So this was what had changed 


AGAINST THE RAIN 299 

Mr. Richards toward her, he was having an affair with this 
Lady Frederick, keeping her up at his place in Greenwich. 

‘'Yes, General, she is a very sick mare,” Richards went 
on; "it’s the last time I’ll breed her, the second time she 
has dropped a dead foal.” 

The conversation lengthened, as it well might, the Gen¬ 
eral, a retired cavalry officer, was always ready to talk 
horse. "Come over on my side,” Richards finally asked him. 
"I’ve a difficult guest on my hands this evening. Nothing 
alarming, however, an insurance barker, out for policies to 
write. I’m quite fagged, she has talked insurance to me 
steadily for the last two solid hours.” 

"She’ll not talk it to me,” said the General. 

"See she doesn’t, nor talk it to me any longer.” 

When Mr. Richards brought General Macintosh over 
and presented him, Mary was surprised—such a nice-faced 
gentleman around seventy. Nothing so deceitful as one’s 
appearance, whoever would spot that old soul for a filthy- 
minded person? They got talking wooden works clocks, he 
and Mr. Richards, a subject they were both keen on. What 
a silly hobby, as if metal works were not more durable! Be¬ 
fore long, the General looked at his watch and said it was 
getting quite late, near his bedtime. 

"What time have you?” Mr. Richards asked. 

"Ten to eleven.” 

"Is that all? I thought it was long past midnight.” 

"Get any sleep, after you got in from Greenwich this 
morning?” 

"Not a wink.” 

"The same way myself; when I’m too tired, I can’t get 
to sleep.” 

Then they talked of their past experiences, the long 


300 


A ROOF 


stretches they had been awake during the War. No wonder 
they were so chummy, they had fought together in France. 
Mr. Richards knew the language, all right, his accent per¬ 
fect. He could pronounce the names of the places, over 
there, like nobody’s business. But they didn’t talk battles, 
they kept the conversation strictly down to the amount of 
sleep they lost. They did not mention French women, 
either, or refer to any of their high jinks in Paris. 

''Now, my dear young lady,” said the General, turning 
to Mary, "I know a most valuable beauty secret, that is, 
if you’re interested.” 

As if she did not know he had it in mind to tell her 
to preserve that school girl complexion by going to bed 
early! But Mary smiled her sweetest. "I’d be thankful to 
know it,” she told the General. 

Of course he said it was sleep, complimenting her, at the 
same time, on her youthful bloom. She was like a flower, he 
said, fresh and fragrant. "But don’t burn the candle at 
both ends, my little girl. Late hours are the direst foes of 
beauty.” 

Mr. Richards didn’t utter. He started to smoke, sup¬ 
pressed a yawn, then, gave up, as if too fagged out to light 
another cigarette. 

Mary rose. "It’s getting late,” she announced, "and I 
guess I’ll be going.” 

Mr. Richards rose with her. "So nice to have had you 
this evening,” he said and in the same breath called his 
Jap to bring Miss Boots’s thing to her. What a let-down, 
good as saying "Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry, come 
again when you can’t stay so long!” 

When leaving, Mr. Richards was polite enough to see 


301 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Mary to the library where the Jap was waiting to get her 
out of the apartment in a hurry. 

"I must see you very soon again,” she struggled through 
the words; "it’s a date, isn’t it, dinner together, this week, 
some evening when you don’t feel so tired?” 

"I’d be charmed, Mary, delighted. But I won’t be in 
town this week.” 

"The week after?” 

"I’ll be going up to Maine for a week then, quite un¬ 
fortunately.” 

"But after that?” 

"I’ll be abroad, probably, until next spring.” 

"Let’s have a dinner before you go to Europe.” 

"I’m sorry to miss it, Mary; but I’m not returning from 
Maine. I’m sailing from Boston.” 

"Good night, Mr. Richards.” 

"Good night, Mary, I can’t tell you how it cheered me 
up, having you here this evening. Good-bye, Mary.” 

"Good-bye, Mr. Richards.” 

Yes, Mary voiced to herself, and good-bye, five hundred 
dollars. 


Chapter Twenty-Two 


Mary undressed slowly. The bath salts, still sweet on her 
body, filled the room with mild fragrance. Through the 
flat’s thin walls, she heard her mother’s footsteps, so labored 
and heavy these last few weeks. At the sound, both stock¬ 
ings were hurriedly drawn on again. Tinted toe nails looked 
suspicious, the girl feared; Mamma must see nothing sus¬ 
picious, nothing to start her asking herself why Mary should 
fix her feet so fancy for the evening’s call on Miss Elliot? 

"Dearie, did you get the money?” asked Effie in the 
doorway. 

"No, Mamma, not yet.” 

"Did you see Miss Elliot personally when you was to her 
house tonight?” 

"Yes, Mamma, but don’t say anything about it to the 
neighbors. It’s a dead secret that Miss Elliot is at home 
and she wants it to be thought that she’s still at the sani¬ 
tarium.” 

"Did the matter of the money come up, when you saw 
her?” 


302 


303 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

"Yes, and I’ll get the money later on.” 

"How soon, dearie?” 

"I don’t know yet. But I’m going to get it. Now, don’t 
you worry, Mamma, and do be careful and not let a soul 
see you without you’re laced up in your corsets, or else 
lying down with a cover over you.” 

"You know I’m careful, you know I’m just as anxious 
as you about keeping the neighbors from knowing more’n 
they ought know.” 

"Good night, Mamma.” 

"Good night, dearie.” 

Mary sat on the bed, her finger tips against her temples. 
God, how she’d have to use her head, use every bit of brain 
in it—or else, she’d be sunk! Not much of a head, she 
knew, a two cylinder one, most probably. But, howsoever, 
each cylinder was a hard worker; and, for that matter, take 
a motorcycle for instance—couldn’t a motorcycle negotiate 
narrow routes which would stall a high powered, eight 
cylinder car? It wasn’t so much what a big brain a body 
had, said Mary to Mary, it was how a body could make the 
best use of the little a body might have. 

But still, it sure looked like sinking tonight, after that 
raw deal from Mr. Richards. That man was all Sid Silver- 
stein had called him, a lousy bastard. Now the last hope 
was gone—her offering herself to a lousy bastard and getting 
the air! Mr. Richards wasn’t going abroad, either—it was 
all a pack of mean lies on his part, a way he took to ditch 
her. He wasn’t sailing for Europe in two weeks—hadn’t 
Mary heard Mr. Richards on the phone, talking to a lady in 
Southampton and dating himself up for three weeks in 
advance? 

Oh, for something to grab at, even a straw! 



304 


A ROOF 


Then, a spasm of sobs—and Mary saw a floating log, a 
most repellent log, just within her arms’ reach. Like jettison 
in the backwash of desperation, floated Mr. Johnson. 

How queer that Mr. Johnson hadn’t come to mind before, 
how dumb of her! Sure, there was old Johnson, wild to 
get married! And Mary had let it slip her memory, the 
time he asked her to kiss him—and she took the teeniest 
peck at his cheek, just out of spite to Mrs. Cromwell. Yes, 
and the two times the old soft-head proposed to Miss Burstall 
in the library. Well, Grace Burstall could turn down Mr. 
Johnson’s offers, for, as she said, she loved her fiance and 
had a very high regard for Mrs. Cromwell. But Mary Boots 
loved Evan Lansing, who despised her. Mary Boots hated 
Mrs. Cromwell, her worst enemy, the she-devil who kept 
her out of the thousand dollars Mr. Goodrich left her on 
his death bed. And to think of it, what that money would 
have meant last March, when Mamma could have been 
rushed to Reno and then got married in time to claim it 
was a seven months’ baby! 

Two weeks passed, but not once did Mr. Johnson make 
an appearance at the Mem. Then, luck changed—at last 
a break for Mary. The old soft-head came into the library 
one Monday morning, wandering down from Mrs. Crom¬ 
well’s office, but Miss Hastings, her secretary, trailed in after 
him a moment later. They went to the History shelves 
and Miss Hastings gave him a book about Abraham Lin¬ 
coln. Mr. Johnson was hipped about Lincoln and thought 
he looked like him. He always asked you whom he looked 
like, and you always had to tell him he was the living pic¬ 
ture of Lincoln. Then, in came Miss Merton for a few 
words with Miss Hastings. While the two women talked, 


AGAINST THE RAIN 305 

Mr. Johnson pencilled a few lines on the flyleaf of the book 
and winked at Mary. He put the book back on the shelf 
and took out another. 

As soon as Miss Merton left the library, the old gentleman 
got fussy, saying he was tired and wanted to go home. He 
called up the Cromwell apartment and asked Wheatley to 
hurry over to the Mem and get him. Wheatley was the 
Cromwell butler. He arrived before long and took the 
old man away with him. Meanwhile, Miss Hastings stuck 
close, probably Mrs. Cromwell’s orders. 

The coast clear, Mary took the book from the History 
shelf and read what Mr. Johnson had written on the fly¬ 
leaf: an invitation to luncheon, today, at twelve-thirty, 
"The Samovar,” a Russian restaurant in Sixth Avenue, 
near Eighth Street. She erased the pencilled lines, then, to 
the washroom and more erasures, every trace of rouge and 
lipstick from her own face. She certainly did look sick 
and Miss Merton let her off for the rest of the day. 

Mary arrived on time at "The Samovar.” Mr. Johnson 
had got there already, a quarter hour too early. In the last 
stall to the left she found him, about as good as sitting on 
the lap of a big waitress, a bold thing, dressed up in a Rus¬ 
sian costume. They were drinking a highball together, out 
of the same glass. He must have had several already, he 
seemed a bit plastered. When the waitress asked for their 
order, Mary glared at the creature, and said, "Please send 
us a man waiter.” 

Mr. Johnson gave the Czarina a smile and five cents, as 
if he thought a petting party with him was its own reward. 

Mary wanted a broiled live lobster, but Mr. Johnson said 
no lobster, it didn’t agree with him. Neither was it good 
for Mary, he thought, too indigestible to be wholesome. 


306 


A ROOF 


He ordered for two, clear soup, lamb chops, baked potatoes, 
a plain salad, gelatine dessert, and a pot of weak tea. 

"What do you think of Wheatley—does he look like an 
honest man?” he asked when the waiter had left. 

"I don’t like his looks whatever,” she answered, sensing 
that the butler was no favorite of Mr. Johnson’s. 

"My dear,” said the old gentleman to that, "you are 
a very intuitive young woman. Wheatley is a rogue. But 
I was a match for him. I got hold of his accounts, I went 
over them, I audited them, I discovered he is defrauding 
my niece to the tune of a hundred dollars every month.” 

"But why doesn’t Mrs. Cromwell fire him, if he is that 
dishonest?” 

"Ah, that’s it, my dear! Cornelia does not know that 
Wheatley is a rogue, and that is why I am here, enjoying 
your company. You see, he is my jailor, put over me by 
my niece.” 

Mr. Johnson told a pitiful story. Mrs. Cromwell treated 
him something wicked, a prisoner in her apartment. If a 
friend dropped in or phoned, it rested on the butler’s say-so 
whether the uncle could see or talk to anybody. The same 
methods with everything—the old gentleman could not 
take a walk or a drive unless Wheatley went with him, a 
shadow he couldn’t get rid of. Then, how Mr. Johnson 
chuckled, telling how he put the thumbscrews on the butler 
to gain some personal liberty for himself! 

"Wheatley must dance to my piping now, my dear,” 
he went on; "for the last two months, ever since I caught 
him red-handed, that rogue has been between the devil and 
the deep sea—he’s where he must give me my freedom, or 
else lose his job and illicit perquisites.” 

Mary changed her mind in regard to Mr. Johnson’s mind. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 307 

The old boy was all there, nothing wrong with his head— 
wasn’t he smarter than Mrs. Cromwell, a mighty smart 
woman? He might be soft in the head, soft in one little 
spot only. In everything not pertaining to women, Mr. 
Johnson was very clever, very foxy, anything but a fool 
or a crazy person. 

With the lamb chops came the proposal of marriage, 
made in exactly the same form as Miss Burstall described the 
two proposals she had rejected. 

"I need a little wife to stand beside me,” the suitor 
pleaded across the table, "a brave little wife who will fight 
for me. My dear, you must be courageous and hold your 
own against that indomitable woman, my niece Cornelia. 
She will try to take me from you, she will try to browbeat 
you.” 

"But, Mr. Johnson, will you fight with me?” 

"Yes, my dear, I can do anything, once I have a brave 
little wife at my side, we two against them both, Cornelia, 
and my nephew, Herbert Johnson. Neither one loves me, 
they only love my money. I am a lonely man, a prisoner 
in the home of Cornelia. Before I fled to Cornelia for pro¬ 
tection, I was a prisoner in the house of my nephew.” 

According to Mr. Johnson’s story, his nephew was no 
better than his niece, each only caring for his money. His 
life, too, had been very sad, three times married and no 
children, the wives all dying on him. The third died two 
years ago, and after that the family decided, hook or crook, 
to keep him a widower. 

"But old Uncle Abner is going to fool them,” he laughed, 
"and will the bride-elect name the happy day?” 

"They say long engagements are unlucky and I’m a 
great believer in luck,” said Mary. Certainly unlucky for 


308 


A ROOF 


her, she thought, if he proposed to someone else in the 
meantime—and was snatched up and married in a jiffy! 

"I am weary of my prison,” he complained, "weary of 
my niece and her hypnotic power over me. But she cannot 
control me if a third person be present. Alone with her, 
I am powerless. That is why I must have my own little 
wife at my side, fighting for me.” 

"I’d rather not have to fight Mrs. Cromwell for you, 
Mr. Johnson. Don’t you think it best to get married, right 
away, and we’ll take a trip to Europe?” 

"We will take a trip, but not abroad, however.” 

"Where is it you have in mind to go?” 

"I shall tell you all about that later, after we are mar¬ 
ried.” 

"When have you it in mind to get married?” 

"That is for the bride-elect to decide.” 

"If I got a thing to do, I like getting it over with soon 
as possible. Say we go to City Hall this afternoon, and get 
married, soon’s we have the license?” 

"I have my fears of City Hall. If Cornelia comes home 
early this afternoon, she will miss me. If she missed me, the 
City Hall license bureau might be the first place where she 
would look for me. It is a mania with my niece, her fear 
that I may get married. As I have seriously considered mar¬ 
riage for some time now, I have it definitely planned.” 

Mr. Johnson’s plan was an Elkton ceremony in Mary¬ 
land, a state that did not require the publishing of marriage 
intentions. "Name tomorrow as the happy day,” he pleaded. 
Mary assented. 

During the dessert course, he was rather pitiable, his 
tears falling into his plate. Nobody in all the wide world 
loved him, he said—he was a sick old man, his niece and 



AGAINST THE RAIN 309 

nephew watching him like two rival wolves, each waiting 
for him to die. At his death, they would leap at each other’s 
throats to fight over his money. But neither Cornelia 
Cromwell nor Herbert Johnson would ever get one red 
cent of it. 

"Who have you in mind to leave it to, Mr. Johnson?” 
Mary heard herself ask. 

"To you, my dear, to my own little wife. It is principally 
in United Can stock.” 

Mary did not dare to ask how much stock. If she knew, 
she could figure her future income, as everybody said 
United was a five per cent investment. 

Mr. Johnson carefully checked up the bill when the 
waiter presented it. He found an overcharge of five cents, 
and had it corrected, quite incensed over it. As a punish¬ 
ment, he left no tip for the waiter. 

God, he was a skinflint, a tightwad! A millionaire and 
a penny-squeezer! No, not a hope of five hundred dollars 
in a lump sum from him. He would squeeze her, too. No 
wonder his relatives were watching for him to die to get 
the only possible approach to his money! She had her own 
money troubles ahead of her, Mary felt—the work and 
manipulation necessary to finance Mamma through Reno! 
She would have to be another Wheatley and chisel it out 
of tradesmen’s bills. Probably the best way would be 
through her charge accounts at the stores, buying things 
one month to return them the next. Mrs. Cody on the 
second floor, a personal maid before her marriage, said her 
madame used to use that method, quite a favorite one in 
high circles. 

They parted in front of the restaurant. Mary went 
home. Mr. Johnson went about his prenuptial business— 


310 A ROOF 

to his bank for money, to the jeweler’s for the ring, to the 
railway office for tickets to Wilmington. 

Effiie had not been so well these last few days, when 
hours would pass and she felt no life; and, when she did 
feel life, it seemed so weak and failing. Could the baby be 
dying inside her? At the noon hour, Effie laced herself into 
a pair of stout corsets, walked to a strange drug store and 
bought eight ounces of ergot. A terrible thing to have to 
swallow; but in case the baby died, this dosing was the 
only way to save herself from blood poisoning and being 
rushed to a hospital for all the Neighborhood to know what 
was really the matter of her. And, dear Lord Jesus, what 
to do with the baby, if it should come? Her own child and 
no way to give it Christian burial! 

The outer door opened. Mary entered to see her mother 
in hysterics—sobbing, writhing on the divan in the living 
room. 

"It’s all right, Mamma,” she said; "and cut out all this 
worrying and carrying on. I’m going to get the money 
and send you to Reno and I’m going to keep you there till 
the baby is born. We’ll do as we planned. You’ll come back 
by way of Providence and leave the baby with Mr. Plykas’s 
sister. Later, you can adopt it, just as we worked it out to 
do.” 

"Then, Mary dearie, Miss Elliot is giving you the money?” 

"Yes, but not a peep out of you to a living soul. I can’t 
get the money except in dribs and drabs. First, I’ll send 
you to Reno and keep sending you enough money for living 
expenses.” 

"When can I start?” 

"I don’t know yet, but it is going to be very soon. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 311 

Tomorrow, I’m going away to stay with Miss Elliot for a 
while, but I don’t want anybody to know about it. 

"'But your job in the libarary, dearie?” 

''I’ve called up Miss Merton and told her I felt I’d be 
sick for several days. Just you keep my room door locked 
and let on as if I had to have rest and quiet.” 


Chapter Twenty-Three 


Again Mr. Johnson was ahead of time when Mary ar¬ 
rived at the Penn Station. He had made all the arrange¬ 
ments yesterday, he said, for everything. 

"But where are your bags, Mr. Johnson?” Mary asked. 

"I didn’t take anything with me. I wouldn’t be sure 
of Wheatley,” he explained; "if that rascal saw me leaving 
the house with any luggage, I would not put it past him to 
inform Cornelia.” He was tickled pink with himself, how 
clever he had been. Mary felt she could tell him he had 
nothing on her—how clever she was, getting herself a mil¬ 
lionaire! She did not tell, of course; the dumber he thought 
her, the better, the easier to pull the wool over his eyes, 
which would not be so very easy, either. The part of his 
head that was soft was not the part that had to do with 
money matters. However, he had tickets for the fancy car, 
not the ordinary coach. For all Mr. Johnson’s skinflintiness, 
he believed in getting all the comfort he could for his 
rickety old bones. The two tickets were in different ends 
of the car, and they were not to go through the gate to¬ 
gether, he said, nor appear together on the train. 


312 


313 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

Mary asked no questions—she understood, still more im¬ 
pressed by Mr. Johnson’s cleverness. He was throwing Mrs. 
Cromwell off the track. Certainly it would attract at¬ 
tention, an old man and a young girl, such a curious couple, 
on their way to Elkton. When they reached Wilmington, 
Mr. Johnson said they should pay no attention to each other. 
He would take one taxi and she would take another, both 
driving to Elkton. 

"Tell the driver to take you to Mr. Rorrick’s residence. 
I’ll probably be there ahead of you. If I am not, wait for 
me.” 

The train finally arrived in Wilmington, and Mary 
alighted with one eye on Mr. Johnson, one eye on the several 
taxi-drivers who were trying to get her as she lingered. 

"See that old gentleman,” she instructed the chosen 
driver, "getting into that taxi? You trail him, don’t let 
him out of your sight for a minute.” 

He said he was on—and he sure was on, never more 
than a few yards behind the other taxi. Such a relief, a 
driver that could be trusted! If she was five minutes late, 
how did Mary know but Mr. Johnson might not meet up 
with a new candidate in the interval and be married already? 
People were right in saying Mrs. Cromwell was about the 
smartest woman in creation; what an accomplishment it 
had been, keeping that old bird from legal mating. 

The taxis stopped at a white house with green shutters, 
with a sign on the gate reading: 

Rev. J. Wesley Rorrick 
Licensed Minister 
Marriage License Obtained 
Ceremony Performed 


314 


A ROOF 


Mr. Johnson said this was the place where they would 
get married. He looked very tired now, as if the trip had 
been too much for him. The sidewalk was bricked, an oc¬ 
casional brick a little tilted. Mr. Johnson tripped on one, 
but Mary grabbed him as he stumbled. As she got him 
balanced, she noticed the porch of the white house where 
a man sat in a rocking-chair, watching traffic, fanning him¬ 
self with a palm-leaf fan. As Mr. Johnson opened the gate, 
the man came down from the porch to meet them. He was 
a big, fair complexioned person, quite fat and sweaty, no 
coat, his feet in slippers. The Reverend Mr. Rorrick, the 
man introduced himself, a strong accent on Reverend. He 
held out two glad red mitts in welcome—shook hands, the 
right to Mr. Johnson, the left to Mary. But he did not let 
go hands, he held on, for all the world as if he were afraid 
they might change their minds and make a bolt of it. A 
woman, Mrs. Rorrick, probably, opened the screen door, 
shooing the three into the parlor. Another man, called 
Frank, took his place in the parlor door, as if to shut off 
any sudden desire for escape. Frank certainly looked the 
suspicious, slippery article, the kind of a fellow that a 
smart cop pinches on a hunch to find out Headquarters has 
wanted that particular punk for the last year. Nor did 
Mary have a high opinion of the minister himself—some¬ 
thing about that person, a queer suspicion that he might 
have been a con man before he took Holy Orders. If Mr. 
Johnson suspected anything, he did not show it, perhaps be¬ 
cause he was too fatigued to function properly. You could 
no more come into this house and not go out married than 
you could enter a cheap-John store and not make a pur¬ 
chase. Mr. Rorrick wouldn’t even trust his customers to 
go to the license bureau without he sent his man, Frank, 
with Mr. Johnson and Mary. 



315 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

When they returned with the license, the minister wore 
his coat, a collar, a white lawn tie. He had buttoned his 
vest, brushed his hair, but still had his feet in slippers. He 
had also taken a drink, you could smell the whisky on his 
breath across the room. Frank was on the porch now, in 
the rocking-chair, his eye on traffic. 

"Stand up,” said the minister, "and join your right 
hands together.” 

Mr. Johnson’s hand felt very dry and cold, the fingers 
trembling. What a queer face he had, all nose, chin, and 
eyebrows! Under the brows, how caved in, his eyes in 
deep hollows! He must have shaved in a hurry this morn¬ 
ing, a patch of gray stubble on one side of his chin. His 
neck was terrible, like a plucked turkey’s. He seemed so 
little, his back so bent from his waist to his collar. The 
clothes simply hung on him, a dressed-up skeleton. In a way, 
how pitiful—he wanted to be loved for himself, not for his 
money! 

"Man was not made to live alone,” Mary heard the 
droning voice of the minister. "Therefore, God created 
He woman to be the wife of man. Woman was not taken 
from the heel of man, for woman was not made to be down¬ 
trodden by man. Nor was she taken from the head, for 
woman was not meant to rule over man. But she was taken 
from the rib, which is next the heart, for woman was 
meant to be the friend and companion of man.” 

What a horrid cock-eyed ceremony, so unlike any cere¬ 
mony Mary had ever heard in St. Botolph’s Chapel. Mr. 
Johnson had a wedding ring in his pocket, purchased yester¬ 
day. But it was not in this Rorrick’s man’s ceremony to have 
Mr. Johnson put it on her finger and say "With this ring 
I thee wed and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” 
This rum-soaked lummox saw a wedding in the terms of 


316 


A ROOF 


bone anatomy, heels and ribs—not a thought in his fat head 
about the property rights marriage gave a woman. Mary felt 
she had slipped, she should have held out for an Episcopal 
minister and a marriage ceremony that made a tightwad re¬ 
alize how much worldly goods a wife was entitled to. Of 
course, as Mr. Johnson said yesterday, he would leave it all 
to her when he died. But in the meanwhile, what was going 
to finance Mamma through Reno? Then, again, maybe Mr. 
Rorrick was as good as could be secured under the circum¬ 
stances—would an Episcopal clergyman marry a young girl 
to her great-grandpa? Mr. Cartwright, the old Vicar, 
would not tie this knot, nor Mr. Carew, never, not in ten 
thousand years! 

Mr. Rorrick spread himself, quite a spiel on the sanctity 
of the marriage relation, how God instituted it in Eden 
to fructify and replenish the earth. When he finally fin¬ 
ished, his wife said, "The customary fee is ten dollars.” 

"Can you change a hundred dollar bill?” asked Mr. 
Johnson. 

Mrs. Rorrick went upstairs and returned with ninety 
dollars. Not until he had the currency in his hand did Mr. 
Johnson take a bill from a heavy leather folder he carried 
in the left inner pocket of his vest. He gave the bill over, 
looking like it tore his heart-strings out to part with a 
hundred dollars. He counted the change over twice before 
he put it in a folder he carried in the right inner pocket of 
his vest. The wallet that held his biggest money was car¬ 
ried closest to Mr. Johnson’s heart, Mary noted. Frank was 
called in to sign as a legal witness, although he had not 
witnessed the ceremony. He remained in the parlor. Mr. 
Rorrick returned to the porch, his eye again on traffic, 
watching for new customers. The woman filled in the mar- 


317 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

riage certificate, already signed by her husband. It was a 
fancy looking document, all decorated, very flowery. But 
cheap material, the paper cracked as Mary folded the cer¬ 
tificate to place it in her handbag. "But, Mrs. Rorrick,” she 
asked then, "how about my wedding ring, why wasn’t I 
married with it?” 

"If you wanted the ring ceremony, you should have 
said so in the first place, Mrs. Johnson.” 

Oh, God, she was Mrs. Abner Johnson, aunt-in-law to 
Mrs. Cromwell! Mary suppressed a laugh, afraid she was 
getting hysterical. But simply ridiculous, also Mr. Herbert 
Johnson’s aunt! She was the Junior League Johnson girls’ 
Aunt Mary, their great-aunt! 

"Please, Frank,” snapped Mrs. Rorrick, "will you take 
care of Mr. and Mrs. Johnson and call a taxi for them?” 

"Just a minute, now,” snapped Mary in turn, "what’s 
your hurry, how about us getting the ring ceremony?” 

"That will be a second ceremony,” the woman said, very 
businesslike in tone and manner. 

"All right, we’ll have it!” 

"Will it be included in the fee already paid?” asked Mr. 
Johnson, seated in a chair, all in. 

"The customary fee for a second ceremony is five 
dollars,” said Mrs. Rorrick. 

"Come here, Mary,” her husband called her. He kissed 
a plain gold ring. He kissed her finger, slipping the ring 
over it. "That is the second ceremony,” he turned on the 
woman, "no further rites are necessary. And, Madame, 
please tell me what is the customary fee, if your maid 
should bring me a glass of water, accompanied by a smaller 
empty glass?” 

A colored girl came in with two glasses on a tray, one 


A ROOF 


318 

empty. Mrs. Rorrick said there was no fee for the service. 
Mr. Johnson thanked her kindly, took a flat bottle from his 
pocket, and poured himself a good stiff drink of whisky. He 
drank it and seemed to revive all of a sudden. The woman 
looked horrified, just as if her own husband did not reek 
of the same stuff. Then, Frank hustled them out and into 
a waiting taxi. 

Mr. Johnson didn’t fancy any of the restaurants he saw 
until the driver drove quite a bit out of town to a swanky 
roadhouse, kept by a hawk-eyed woman. Mary could feel 
the eyes boring through her back as she took her place at a 
table in the tearoom. How that woman could gimlet her 
contempt for a young girl who could marry a tottering man 
in his eighties! And all Mr. Johnson’s fault, his telling at 
the desk that it was a happy occasion, a wedding luncheon! 

Mr. Johnson ordered daiquiris first, two for himself, one 
for Mary. The drink tasted like a delicious lemonade, but 
she went slow on her glass, quite sure there was liquor in it. 
Liquor was good for him, Mr. Johnson claimed, and he had 
had precious little of it until he was able to control Wheat- 
ley. 

"But, Mr. Johnson, maybe it is very bad for your health, 
the worst thing you could take.” 

"If liquor were a menace to my health, Cornelia Crom¬ 
well would feed it to me by the gallon—she doesn’t love me, 
she wants me to die and get my money.” 

"I wish you would go slow on it, Mr. Johnson, I’m very 
sure it isn’t good for you.” 

"I’m just as sure that it is, a logical deduction.” 

"I can’t see logic in taking too much liquor.” 

"My dear little wife, you have no conception of how 
Cornelia hopes for my earliest possible demise.” 


319 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

He drank the second daiquiri and ordered two more for 
himself. "A repellent creature, that Rorrick,” he remarked 
then. 

"What I don’t understand, Mr. Johnson, is how you 
knew about him in the first place, why you had him already 
picked to marry you.” 

"An idea of Jorka’s, she told me about Rorrick and Elk- 
ton.” 

"Who is Jorka?” 

"Jorka,” said he, "was my niece’s laundress, a woman 
with a blue and a brown eye. A large woman, my dear, 
strong in mind and body, a match for Cornelia.” Then, 
he tapped a tattoo on the table and looked frightfully 
troubled. 

"What’s the matter, Mr. Johnson? You look so wor¬ 
ried.” 

"I am thinking of Jorka, my dear.” 

"Why should that worry you?” 

"At one time, I had intended to marry Jorka. I felt I 
needed her strength to combat Cornelia.” 

"How come you didn’t marry Jorka?” 

"She was already married. Cornelia’s chauffeur was her 
legal husband.” 

"Where is she now?” 

"On her way back from Reno.” 

"When will she reach New York, Mr. Johnson?” 

"Sometime tomorrow, or the following day.” 

"Will she start something when she gets back and finds 
out you are already married?” 

"She certainly will,” said Mr. Johnson. 

"Have you written to her and mentioned your engage¬ 
ment? Have you given her a written hold on you?” 


320 A ROOF 

"I have, unfortunately. I did at first, I wrote Jorka two 
letters. Then, no more.” 

"Why did you stop writing her?” 

"Her letters offended me, she is such an illiterate creature. 
Much as I hoped to get free of Cornelia, I did not feel I 
could accept Jorka as Mrs. Abner Johnson.” 

"Did she continue to write to you?” 

"Yes, daily, her letters are appalling.” 

"Weren’t you afraid they might fall into Mrs. Crom¬ 
well’s hands?” 

"Not at all, Wheatley has been taking care of that for 
me.” 

"He knows about her, does he?” 

"Yes.” 

"Aren’t you afraid of the trouble she is going to start?” 

"Not in the least.” 

"Why aren’t you worried, Mr. Johnson?” 

"Cornelia Cromwell will take care of Jorka.” 

"How?” 

"Cornelia will be glad to settle with her.” 

"How settle with her?” 

"Get her down to her lowest figure and pay her the 
money.” 

"It will be lots of money, won’t it?” 

"Jorka may be illiterate, but she is a hard and clever 
character.” 

"But it must worry you, Mr. Johnson, having to part 
with all that money.” 

"Not a cent of it is coming out of my pocket.” 

"Whose, then?” 

"Cornelia’s, of course. My last will is in Cornelia’s favor 
—there is nothing she would not pay to keep me single.” 


321 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

''But you are not single, Mr. Johnson, you are married 
to me now.” 

He choked on the chop he was eating, the first time it 
had occurred to him that he, not Mrs. Cromwell, would 
have to settle with Jorka, now that he was a married man. 
He all but collapsed at the table. It took two waiters to 
get him to a porch-swing on the veranda. Mr. Johnson all 
but cried, he was that disappointed. He had been so happy, 
he said, ever since he changed his mind about marrying 
Jorka, enjoying the thought of Cornelia’s parting with the 
money that must be settled on her. He had played the same 
trick on his niece before, the time the trained nurse had 
accepted him. But he had not jilted the nurse of his own 
free will, Cornelia had talked him out of it. It cost her 
twenty thousand dollars to keep the nurse from suing for 
breach of promise. At the memory, Mr. Johnson laughed, 
a very pleasant recollection, evidently. He looked terrible 
when he laughed, his false teeth shaking. He took them 
out, wrapped them in his handkerchief, and put the wad 
into an outer vest pocket. 

"Remember all I am telling you, Mary. The day will come 
when you will be rich and old. Do not forget this, none 
of your kin will love you when you are old. Don’t let their 
protestations deceive you—all you will mean to them is 
something to die and leave them your money, my money, 
the money I’m leaving you. You don’t love me, either. You 
want my money.” 

"If you thought that, why did you marry me, Mr. 
Johnson?” 

"To get ahead of Cornelia Cromwell.” 

Then, he slept for quite a while, several hours in the 
porch-swing. Mary could not look at him, snoring through 


322 A ROOF 

his whopper of a nose, his toothless mouth open, the patch 
of gray hairs on his chin. 

When Mr. Johnson woke up, he told Mary to go to the 
proprietor and arrange for a double room with bath. 

Although the roadhouse did take lodgers, the hawk- 
eyed woman refused the Johnsons, she would have noth¬ 
ing more to do with such a couple, she said; and would 
they please oblige her and leave as soon as possible? 

'*1 don’t think that is treating a married couple fair,” 
protested Mary. 

"You little gold-digger,” snapped the woman, "suppose 
that old relic doesn’t last out his wedding night and I have 
a corpse in the house tomorrow morning? Think I want 
the sheriff in here, looking for foul play, giving my place 
a bad name?” 

Mary began to cry. 

The woman’s heart was not as hawkish as her eyes, she 
changed, suddenly kind, considerate. "I know genuine tears 
when I see ’em,” she said finally. "There are times in many 
a woman’s life when she is so hard pressed that she feels she’d 
rather be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.” 

"And I was where I was up against it, simply desperate,” 
sobbed Mary, in honest tears. 

"Then, you take my advice and avoid any trouble over 
him dying immediately. Make him cut out the liquor. 
Keep him from getting too ambitious—you know what I 
mean. The longer he lasts, the better it is going to look 
for you.” 

"And you won’t take us in?” 

"No, I can’t. I run my house very strict. I would not 
have any question of a guest dying and all the talk that 
would make.” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 323 

"But what can I do if Mr. Johnson gets sick on my 
hands?” 

"Best take him over to Wilmington, put him in a hos¬ 
pital.” 

"I am positive that Mr. Johnson isn’t sick enough for a 
hospital.” 

"Well, my advice is go to Wilmington, put up at the 
Hotel Le Font and stay there till he is sick enough for the 
hospital or strong enough for the trip home.” 

"I guess we’d better go to the hotel in Wilmington, for 
tonight, at least.” 

"You don’t seem to have any baggage with you.” 

"Only that suit box I left at the desk.” 

"You’d never get into the Le Font on a wrapped pack¬ 
age. You’ve got to show baggage.” 

"All the stores will be closed when we get to Wilming¬ 
ton—it’s quite late now.” 

"I got some first class baggage, held on an unpaid bill. 
Want to look it over?” 

When he heard of the prospect of a bargain in luggage, 
Mr. Johnson revived. He looked it over and bought a 
steamer trunk and two bags. Mary put her things in one 
of the bags. The woman packed the other bag and the 
trunk with old magazines and newspapers—they were 
quite weighty after that. 

Such an obliging woman, now that she felt sorry for a 
girl forced into a loveless marriage! She was so kind that 
she even called up the hotel at Wilmington to reserve a 
suite for Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. 

Then, into a taxi—and Mr. Johnson so happy now, tickled 
pink over the trunk and the two bags, of excellent quality, 
he said, and bought for one-half their real value. He felt 


A ROOF 


324 

so good that he took two big drinks of whisky on the head 
of it. Finally, he was sleepy and laid his head on Mary’s lap. 
He slept very soundly, not waking when his head was 
lifted and a newspaper put under it. When sleeping on his 
cheek, Mr. Johnson drooled worse than a teething baby. 

Oh, God in heaven, they were going to a hotel together, 
alone in a room together! How could she ever go through 
with it, when Mr. Johnson got ambitious, as the woman 
called it? Would she go crazy, stark raving mad? Would 
she kill herself first—jump out a window? God, how she 
hated Mamma, a slut that couldn’t take care of her old 
tail at forty! How she hated Mrs. Cromwell, the hellion 
who kept her out of the thousand dollars! 

Yes, she would go through it, Mary nerved herself—she 
would jump out no window, tonight! She had gone into 
this thing with her eyes wide open, Mary told herself. She 
married Mr. Johnson, knowing exactly what was ahead 
of her. She understood it perfectly well, much better than; 
the average parthenic girl, as Mr. Richards called it. She 
had found parthenic in the dictionary, it meant virginal. 

“I’m parthenic,” Mary said to herself as she took a fresh 
newspaper from the bag and put it under Mr. Johnson’s 
head. "And I have to go through the very hardest thing 
that can be asked of a girl like me.” Strangely enough, Mr. 
Richards grew more vivid in her memory. Mary admitted 
he looked mighty good to her at present. She was think¬ 
ing true at last, no longer kidding herself—she preferred sin 
and Mr. Richards and five hundred dollars to legal wed¬ 
lock with Mr. Johnson and a will in her favor. From one 
of Mrs. Mason’s lectures on maladjustment in marriage, 
Mary feared she might be a sex case, there were two such 
cases in the Ann District, young wives of old Wops—one 


325 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

went on the loose, the other went cuckoo. With her pas¬ 
sionate nature, Mary feared she would be more inclined to 
go on the loose. That was what she must guard against, 
holding herself in until she was a wealthy widow. Then, 
she would marry a handsome, fascinating young man and 
have a family. There would be no real love in it, not for 
her. She could love no one but Lance, who would not have 
her. Her money would mean nothing to him, he had so 
much of his own. But, fortunately, all men were not so 
idealistic, nor so wealthy. With Mr. Johnson’s money, no 
trouble to get an attractive husband and live a normal sex 
life as long as it was agreeable to her. 

The warning Mr. Johnson had given her, that she would 
yet find herself in his fix, a hated old person with relatives 
hoping and waiting for her to die! She would never be in 
that boat, never! When Mary got well along in years, she 
would be Grandma, telling the kids stories, buying them 
lovely presents. And there would be no Grandpa on the 
premises, either—no old man about, snoring, drooling. She 
would get rid of the handsome husband in good time, as 
soon as she found her nature cooling, the man beginning 
to mean less and less to her. Sure, she’d do it, whether he 
liked it or didn’t. God! what was so horrid as an old man, 
what could be more disgusting? 


Chapter Twenty-Four 


Mr. Johnson had to be helped from the taxi and into 
the hotel at Wilmington. He could not co-ordinate to 
register. It was Mary’s hand that wrote "Mr. and Mrs. Ab¬ 
ner Johnson, N.Y.C.,” on the card they brought her. She 
tried to excuse the looks of things to the hotel clerk—just 
an attack of indigestion, her husband was subject to them, 
she explained, they were not serious, he got over them very 
quickly. The reserved suite was fifteen dollars a day, but 
the clerk seemed sorry and doubtful about renting it, even 
at that price, probably, because Mr. Johnson smelled of 
liquor, to every appearance a sadly soused old gentleman. 
He lay where he was put, on one of the twin beds in the 
bedroom. 

Mary felt she could never raise her eyes in this hotel 
again, she was that ashamed. She knew what the hotel 
crew thought of her. She could feel it in the air—they 
looked on her as a little gold-digger, they despised her. 
One of the clerks had laughed in spite of himself. The 

326 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 327 

bell-hops exchanged knowing glances. People in the foyer 
had stopped to stare after such an outlandish couple. 

In less than ten minutes, a Dr. Ballard, the house physi¬ 
cian, came to the suite, sent by the management, he said, 
a precaution they always took against contagious diseases. 
Trying to be polite, Mary felt, d.t.’s, not the smallpox, was 
what the hotel was afraid of. After Dr. Ballard looked Mr. 
Johnson over, he had a conference with the management 
over the telephone in the bedroom. Mary did not hear 
what was said—she kept to the other room, feeling wild 
horses could never drag her to a bedroom with Mr. John¬ 
son in it. 

After a while, Dr. Ballard called Mary. But she did not 
enter, she stood in the door, her eyes turned from the bed. 
The doctor was polite, but to the point. "Mrs. Johnson,” 
he said, "your husband is an old man, in a weakened physi¬ 
cal condition. He has, very evidently, been on quite a 
debauch. If you consent to a trained nurse’s attending 
him, you may remain. Otherwise, the management is 
sorry but you will be asked to check out.” 

A nurse in the suite! The doctor’s voice sounded like a 
voice from heaven, bringing tidings of great joy, Mary 
told herself, a momentary reversion to former piety and 
trust in God’s goodness. But she checked herself quickly— 
she was on her own now, expecting no more miracles than 
the ones she could pull from her own bag of tricks. 

"Certainly, Dr. Ballard, I’d be glad for a trained nurse. 
With one around, I’d feel easier about my husband’s con¬ 
dition.” She went back to her seat by the sitting room win¬ 
dow, the relief, the weight lifted from her heart to know 
she would not have to be alone with Mr. Johnson! 

The trained nurse appeared promptly, a Miss Perkins, 


328 


A ROOF 


a nice person, youngish, but very businesslike. Mary re¬ 
mained in the other room, letting the nurse undress Mr. 
Johnson. He was sobering slightly, his voice coming back 
to him. But Miss Perkins listened to no protests. He had 
his choice, she said, either to submit to the hotel’s rule for 
a sick guest, or seek another hotel. 

As the nurse spoke, Mary squirmed in the misery of ab¬ 
ject shame. They were a marked couple, a subject of sus¬ 
picion. The hotel management was afraid of them, of her 
in particular. For all she knew, the nurse was put here for 
fear she might kill Mr. Johnson in the night, leaving them 
with a corpse to explain to the cops in the morning. The 
roadhouse woman wouldn’t have them, either. Were they 
to be like Cain in the Bible, a mark on them, every hand 
raised against them? They were marked, all right—a girl 
who could pass for eighteen, going around with an aged, tot¬ 
tering husband—Mr. Johnson was to be laughed at, Mrs. 
Johnson to be despised by everybody. 

"Where are your husband’s pajamas?” demanded Miss 
Perkins. "One bag has your things, the other is packed 
with newspapers. Are Mr. Johnson’s things in the trunk?” 

"How unfortunate,” Mary lied glibly, "his things were 
in the other bag, the bag we forgot and left on the train.” 

"Come,” came the call from the other room, "I need a 
little help to the bathroom.” 

Miss Perkins went to assist him. Through the open door 
Mary saw Mr. Johnson in a long sleeved, long legged union 
suit of beige mesh, tottering across the room on the nurse’s 
arm, a rickle of skin and bones. He looked so funny, like 
some kind of an insect, a cricket, wobbling up on its hind 
legs. She laughed and could not stop herself, shrieking and 
choking. She got worse and worse—when she wasn’t laugh- 



329 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

ing, she was crying—and always choking, chest locking, 
throat closing on her. Mary had to shriek to keep from suf¬ 
focating. 

Miss Perkins sent for Dr. Ballard. The doctor adminis¬ 
tered a quieting powder. After a while, Mary knew she 
was falling asleep on a bed the nurse had made up on the 
couch in the sitting room. 

Then, it was early morning, the sun rising. Miss Per¬ 
kins sat by the window, working a cross-word puzzle. She 
said Mr. Johnson was much better. 

"And he’ll stay better,” Mrs. Johnson warned her, "if 
he doesn’t give you the slip and get at the liquor he has 
hidden in various pockets. He can carry anything outside 
him, so thin and his clothes so loose on him.” 

"The liquor has been put out of harm’s reach,” the nurse 
reported. 

"If my opinion counts any, I believe that is all that’s the 
matter with him, he takes more than he can carry.” 

"I concur with your opinion, quite,” said Miss Perkins. 

"What might it do to him?” 

"I am a nurse, Mrs. Johnson, not a physician. A nurse 
does not give a diagnosis.” 

"What does Dr. Ballard think?” 

"I do not know. You ask Dr. Ballard, I believe he was in 
consultation, last night, with your husband’s physician.” 

"To New York, by long distance?” 

"I believe so.” 

"How did Dr. Ballard know how to reach Mr. Johnson’s 
doctor?” 

"Undoubtedly, your husband gave that information.” 

Now, it was out, the news of the marriage! But what 
could they do about it in New York? They could do noth- 


330 


A ROOF 


ing—it was a legal ceremony. Mr. Johnson was her hus¬ 
band, and she had a certificate to prove it. Mary knew she 
had her rights and she would stand on her rights. Let the 
Cromwell and Johnson outfits crack all the whips they 
wanted to—they could not scare her! If they tried any 
funny business, they would find they had Sammy Silver- 
stein to fight them tooth and nail. Thank God for a poor 
man’s lawyer, this time, a poor girl’s lawyer! It was five 
now. Mr. Silverstein wouldn’t be in his office until nine- 
thirty. She would call him on long distance at ten, sure 
to get him by that time. No, she was not a bit afraid, only 
a little nervous until she got in touch with Sammy and gave 
him the story. 

At seven, Dr. Ballard called and a new nurse, Mrs. Fen¬ 
ner, came on duty, an oldish woman. As Mr. Richards 
would say, she was inscrutable, no getting any line on her. 
But something was in the atmosphere, what Miss Elliot 
called ominous. Oh, God, for ten o’clock to come and hear 
Sammy Silverstein’s voice at the other end of the wire! 
But it was nothing but her own nerves, Mary assured her¬ 
self. What she sensed was the nurse’s and Dr. Ballard’s ap¬ 
prehension that Mr. Johnson might get hold of more liquor. 
Nor did they like how contrary he was, dead set not to fol¬ 
low their advice. They wanted him to stay in bed, and he 
would not listen to it. They wanted breakfast served in 
the suite, nor would he listen to that either. He said he 
was on his honeymoon and never felt better nor stronger 
in his life. At that, he asked Dr. Ballard and Mrs. Fen¬ 
ner whom did he resemble? And how he bawled them 
out because they didn’t know the answer and say he 
looked like Abraham Lincoln! Then, he told them he 


AGAINST THE RAIN 331 

was Lincoln, and high time for the world to realize Old 
Abe was alive and about to take things in hand and save 
the nation. 

Mary sank into a chair, her head dizzy, the room whirl¬ 
ing round and round, the floor dipping. Dr. Ballard came 
to her, suddenly kind and attentive. 

"I don’t faint,” she stammered, "don’t bother over me. 
All I want you to do for me is tell me if he is crazy, am I 
married to a lunatic who thinks he is Lincoln, a man that’s 
dead and buried for years and years?” 

"I cannot express an opinion, Mrs. Johnson, I am not 
an alienist.” 

"But, Dr. Ballard, don’t you hear him claiming he is 
Abraham Lincoln?” 

"Yes,” the physician admitted, "he seems laboring under 
that delusion.” 

"Can’t you do something to cure his crazy notions?” 

"I am leaving that to Mr. Johnson’s physician.” 

Mrs. Cromwell was now wise to everything; certainly the 
New York physician had got in touch with that woman 
as soon as Dr. Ballard got him on long distance. In no time 
now, the power of money would close on her like a steel 
trap. But they couldn’t work it—Sammy Silverstein could 
beat the power of money, he had done it often before, he 
could do it again. Just a matter of keeping her own head, 
Mary cautioned Mary. And, God in Heaven, how hard 
to hold in while the lunatic in the next room went on like 
that, telling the world he was Lincoln! How terrible, mar¬ 
ried to a wild maniac and money and privilege getting ready 
to do a poor defenseless girl! 

When a barber came up to shave Mr. Johnson, he re¬ 
fused to be shaved. They hustled the barber out in a 


332 A ROOF 

hurry, afraid the barber would hear him saying he was 
Lincoln. 

"That was my biggest mistake, Dr. Ballard, going clean 
shaven. But, when I have my beard again, the nation will 
recognize me.” Mary listened, her blood turned cold. "The 
entire nation will turn to me,” Mr. Johnson went on. 
"The people of these United States will come to me. For 
the second time in the country's history, Old Abe will save 
the nation." 

They humored him and let him get dressed. But they 
did not want him to have breakfast in the dining room of 
the hotel. Finally, he made a dicker with them—if he could 
breakfast as he wished, he promised to keep mum on his 
being Lincoln. 

It was a little after ten when Mary finally managed to 
slip out of the suite. Dr. Ballard was there with Mr. John¬ 
son, keeping him happy by letting him rave on about being 
Abraham Lincoln, and pretending to believe every word he 
said. 

Instead of using a hotel telephone, Mary went to a drug 
store to get in touch with Mr. Silverstein. But Sammy 
wasn’t in his office. He had gone to Washington and would 
not be back until two or three, this afternoon. 

"Then, please can I speak to Mr. Sid?’’ she asked. Sid 
wasn’t a lawyer, but he was a mighty slick article. 

Nor was Sid in town, he was spending the week with 
his family in Atlantic City. 

At noon, Mary could not touch a bite of food, not with 
the state her nerves were in, all at sixes and sevens until she 
got Mr. Silverstein’s ear. Mr. Johnson, in great humor now, 
ate his lunch from the tray Mrs. Fenner brought him. By 


AGAINST THE RAIN ' 333 

this time chummy with the nurse; a foxy article, that 
woman—calling him "Abe” and claiming she recognized 
him at first sight. After lunch, he fell to sleep, snoring like 
a rhinoceros. A Dr. Currier, a new man, arrived, and went 
into the other room with Dr. Ballard. Mary felt a cold 
fear, this Currier was from New York, she knew it, she 
felt it in her bones. Mrs. Fenner was now on guard by the 
couch, saying Mr. Johnson must sleep, complete rest neces¬ 
sary to him. But, thank God, it was past two now and she 
could call up Mr. Silverstein. 

Suppose Mrs. Fenner tried to stop her, suspecting she 
went to get outside help? "I feel quite hungry,” Mary told 
the nurse; "I think I’ll go to the dining room and have 
something.” 

The woman was agreeable, no insistence that she should 
eat in the suite. At least, that was something—they were 
not trying to make a prisoner of her. Still leery of the 
hotel crew, Mary again went to the drug store. A wait 
for a booth, then a much longer wait for a wire to New 
York. Sammy was not yet back, but they expected him 
any minute, his secretary said. Mary had a chocolate sun¬ 
dae at the counter, and went to the booth again—a wait, 
and, then Mr. Silverstein’s office—Sammy not yet in, but 
expected, any minute. 

Best get back to the hotel—a queer hunch urged the 
girl to hurry, not to lose a moment. Then, she knew she 
was running, bumping into people on the sidewalk. But 
she tore on, goaded by the placeless dread that had taken 
hold of her. Something had happened, something terrible 
had happened, while she was trying to get Mr. Silverstein. 
Why had she ever left the suite? How could she have been 
so dumb? Shouldn’t Dr. Currier’s arrival have put her on 


334 A ROOF 

extra caution? But how was she to know what to do 
until she had talked with Sammy Silverstein? 

The elevator car seemed to move like a snail, stopping 
at every floor—people getting off, getting on, the slowest 
people in the world, time meaning nothing to them. A run 
down the hall, and Mary knocked on the suite door. A 
chambermaid opened it. Not a soul in the sitting room. 
Nobody in the bedroom. No one in the bath. The trunk 
and the other bag were gone. 

"Where are they?” Mary asked the chambermaid, now 
removing the linen on Mr. Johnson’s bed. 

"I wouldn’t know,” said the maid. 

"But I’ve got to know.” 

"Why don’t you call up the office and ask, then?” and 
the maid left with the used linen. As she went out, a man 
entered, a man Mary had never seen before. 

"What have you done with my husband?” Mary de¬ 
manded. "You came here while I was out and sneaked my 
husband away.” 

"Who is your husband?” he asked her. 

So they were denying the marriage, were they? Mary 
decided to say nothing more. This was no time to talk, 
this was the time to keep her head, get to a telephone and 
stick at it until she had Sammy Silverstein on the wire. 

"Will you please let me pass?” she asked the man who 
now stood with his back planted against the closed door. 

"Young woman, I advise you not to leave this room.” 

"You hired dick, you cheap pussyfoot, do you think 
you can keep me a prisoner here?” 

"You’ll find yourself a prisoner, if you leave this room. 
There’s a man in the hall outside with a warrant for your 
arrest.” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 335 

"You think that scares me, do you? Please let me pass 
and don’t hinder me.” 

"If you want to be arrested, go on then.” 

"Bunk! What could I be arrested for?” 

"Young woman, I am an attorney and I’m telling you 
there is sufficient evidence to convict you for fraud and 
kidnapping. Do you realize you could be sent to the elec¬ 
tric chair under the Lindbergh law? However, we are not 
considering taking such extreme measures, although you 
have laid yourself open to the charge. Do you realize the 
seriousness of drugging your victim, and, in a drugged 
condition, removing him from one state to another? Last 
night, your victim arrived here in a semi-conscious con¬ 
dition. You can’t deny it. I have too many witnesses to 
the contrary.” 

"You are not going to frame me. There is money to 
frame me, plenty, Cromwell and Johnson money. But 
think of the case Sammy Silverstein could make of it, a 
poor girl framed because she let a wealthy man talk her 
into marrying him. And I did it out of pity for him, to 
be a daughter to him, to save him from Mrs. Cromwell.” 

Mary paused to think. If Mrs. Cromwell’s man were 
bluffing, better to keep mum and get to a telephone right 
away. Yet, if he weren’t bluffing? The doubt was too 
serious to run the risk of a pinch. No, no, not that, losing 
her respectability forever! No girl can be pinched and 
ever be the same again. 

A knock on the door—it was the cop, the warrant, she 
would be arrested, a kidnapper, thrown into jail! 

The man opened the door, another man entered. "Just 
a minute, Finnigan,” said the man who claimed he was an 
attorney; "please wait a minute.” 


336 A ROOF 

Finnigan, the name was enough, a plainclothes man with 
a warrant in his pocket! 

But why was the attorney waiting, why didn’t he tell 
Finnigan to go to it? Was he just a little too afraid to ar¬ 
rest her? Certainly, he was not sure of the move to take. 
Yes, she had to bark, Mary’s sense of self-preservation told 
her—bark and show her teeth. 

"Go ahead,” she cried, "frame me, just frame me, and 
see what happens! I have plenty of friends to stand by me 
and raise hell, all over the country. Ever heard of Stanley 
Hayden, editor of 'The Rising Sun’? He’s a good friend 
of mine. 'The Rising Sun’ will take it up, it will fight for 
me. Stanley Hayden will go out and make speeches, all 
over the country, and he will raise funds to defend me. 
The Reds will eat this up, a girl flung into jail because 
she let a wealthy man talk her into marrying him. You 
say I drugged him—he drugged himself with liquor. I 
tried to stop him, I have witnesses to prove I tried to stop 
his sousing. How could I kidnap him when he bought the 
tickets for the train, tickets for the two of us? Do you 
know I have any number of girls who will swear he was 
always proposing to them? But I felt sorry for him, I 
wanted to be a daughter to him. Go ahead, frame me—and 
see what a monkey Sammy Silverstein will make of you, 
when he gets you in the courtroom!” 

Another knock on the door, this time a bell-hop, hand¬ 
ing a note to the attorney. He read it and told Finnigan 
to stay outside the door, he was going downstairs, he said. 
Then, he turned to Mary. "Young woman, I must leave 
you for a short time. You may suit yourself during my 
absence—remain here, or take the consequences.” 

Mary chose to remain. She had no wish to encounter Mr. 
Finnigan on the other side of the door. But of this she felt 



337 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

assured, Mrs. Cromwell’s attorney did not want to arrest 
her, he left the suite several hues yellower than when he 
entered. Just as well try the telephone here and see if the 
hotel would give her long distance. But, as she had feared, 
the office said no message could be sent from a room after 
the guest had checked out. The hotel was fixed, all right, 
the Cromwell money at dirty work on every side. The 
man she had just talked to had come to size her up and 
sound her out, she felt. 

As Mary progressed, tapping at this and that conjec¬ 
ture, the picture seemed to assemble itself in her mind—in 
New York, yesterday, when Mr. Johnson was found miss¬ 
ing, Wheatley, responsible for his prisoner, was put on the 
spot. He came clean far enough to tell about Jorka. As she 
reached this conclusion, Mary breathed easier—the warrant 
in Finnigan’s pocket was made out to arrest Jorka, not 
Mary Boots. Yet, no one knowing the difference in Wil¬ 
mington, Mary would first be arrested and put in jail, dis¬ 
graced forevermore, her respectability gone to the dogs. Of 
course, Sammy Silverstein would get a big settlement out 
of it and Mrs. Johnson would be a very wealthy woman. 
But, being wealthy had its own disadvantages, wealthy peo¬ 
ple could get declasse, a thing they had to avoid, exactly 
the same as poor people had to keep up their respectability. 

In her rounded-out and cinema-acquired worldliness, 
Mary had her own conception of society’s declassed con¬ 
tingent. The screen had brought it to her as vividly as it 
had brought all alien, all far distant subjects and condi¬ 
tions to the ken of the tenements. Mary was as familiar 
with the complicated troubles of a wealthy declassee as she 
was with the simple lives of bare-bosomed virgins of Bali. 
Declassees go places and are snubbed, cold-shouldered on 
every side. They finally end up at the Riviera, any amount 


338 


A ROOF 


of them there, wearing lovely gowns and very unhappy. 
They have all kinds of amusements, but can enjoy nothing. 
Their spirits keep as blue as the Mediterranean Sea which 
is very much on their minds. 

Then, all of a sudden, Mary told herself that Mr. Sil- 
verstein loved a case in court and he might hold out for 
big money, maybe a million dollars. Not a refined person 
himself, being declasse would cut little ice with the poor 
man’s lawyer. Like as not, he might tell her to get ar¬ 
rested as Jorka and collect extra money for false imprison¬ 
ment, the same as he did on a big suit he had, last spring, 
the papers full of it. The thing to do was to keep her head, 
and follow Mr. Carew’s advice not to dramatize herself. 
Mr. Silverstein must be her bark, not her bite. Her trouble 
had always been getting emotional on personal matters, fly¬ 
ing off the handle. That was her family, all right, very 
much given to home rows. A funny family in a way, 
smart enough when it came to a job, but no sense in man¬ 
aging their private affairs. Marrying Mr. Johnson was a 
job, to be treated as a job—getting all the money obtainable 
without raising a stink. When Finnigan and Mrs. Crom¬ 
well’s attorney made their next appearance, they would 
find Mrs. Johnson as cool as a cucumber, calm as a May 
morning, foxy as hell. She wouldn’t turn a hair at the 
sight of them, so calm and fearless they would be another 
shade the yellower. The more confidence she showed, the 
more she would have them guessing at what Mrs. Johnson 
might have up her sleeve. 

A key was turning in the lock. Mary’s breath caught 
in her throat. Her hands came together and locked, hard 
pressed against her chest, fingers digging into her flesh. 

The door opened. Finnigan came into the room. Mary 


339 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

screamed, too terror-stricken to distinguish the faces of the 
two men who entered in Finnigan’s wake. 

"Don’t you dare pinch me, don’t you dare pinch me!” 
she shrieked as she gained the open window. "Don’t you 
dare to! I’ll jump out this window first!” 

She looked into the street below—and shrieked. She 
looked back at Finnigan—and shrieked. Her panic-dazed 
eyes looked at the two blurred figures nearer the door— 
and Mary shrieked twice, each time wilder, more frenzied 
than before. 

"Get out of here, Finnigan; get out, Horton,” snapped 
the voice of the last man into the room. "Get out and stay 
out!” 

But, in her delirium of fright, Mary was deaf, she heard 
nothing. Half blinded, she screamed as Finnigan moved— 
until she realized he went from her, not toward her. Then, 
she came slowly to consciousness that she was alone in the 
room. God, what had she done, almost jumped out the 
window! She closed it in quick caution, and staggered 
to the bath, almost groping her way to reach water, hardly 
enough strength left to turn the tap on. 

After a while, somebody knocked on the bathroom 
door. 

"Who’s there?” Mary asked. 

"Dr. Ballard. Won’t you come out? I want to talk with 
you a minute.” 

"Anybody else out there?” 

"No, just myself here.” 

"What do you want to talk about?” 

"I have a message for you.” 

"Who from?” 

"Judge Ramsey,” said Dr. Ballard through the door. 


Chapter Twenty-Five 


Mary sat in the sitting room of the hotel suite. She was 
gasping now, the reflex of her spent sobs. So hard to stop 
crying, even after Dr. Ballard gave the aromatic spirits of 
ammonia to quiet her. Judge Ramsey had been one of 
the three men who came into the room—that was why 
Mary had sobbed so bitterly. If it had been anyone else, 
anyone but Judge Ramsey! Even Miss Elliot would have 
been less humiliation, she was a social worker. Or Mr. 
Carew, who was a priest. But, of all the world, it had to 
be Judge Ramsey! Why hadn’t she thought of that, that 
he might be a Cromwell lawyer? What must he think of 
her, just what must he think of her now? 

"Please don’t go yet, Dr. Ballard, please stay a little 
longer with me. I can’t face Judge Ramsey, not just yet.” 

The physician, about to depart, closed the door from 
the inside and seated himself again. "It may not be con¬ 
siderate to keep a busy man waiting too long,” he sug¬ 
gested. 


340 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 341 

"But, Doctor, I feel I will pass out, the minute he comes 
in here and faces me.” 

"Would it make it any easier for you if I should remain 
until Judge Ramsey comes in?” he asked. 

"I think it would,” said she. 

Dr. Ballard went to the telephone in the other room for 
a minute—returned and sat down again. Mary hurried 
to the bath, dashed her face with cold water, then, a touch 
of make-up and her hair to set in order. Again Dr. Ballard 
tapped on the door, Judge Ramsey was waiting for her, 
he said. 

The doctor was gone, when Mary came out, only Judge 
Ramsey in a chair near the entrance door. He rose, but 
Mary could not look at him. She crossed the sitting room 
and sat on the edge of the couch, her eyes on the floor. A 
sheet of fire had risen from her neck and swept her face 
until her cheeks burned into her eyes. She waited, but 
heard nothing, not a word. She looked up—he was there 
still, his back to the door, his eyes on her. 

"For God’s sake, say something, Judge Ramsey,” she 
cried, "say something!” 

"Mary, I don’t know what to say, I am left speechless.” 

"I’ll go crazy, if you don’t say something. I can’t stand 
it, you looking at me, saying nothing.” 

"Mary, I’ve been out of town on business for several 
days; a few hours ago, my office succeeded in getting me in 
Washington. They informed me that a former servant in 
the Cromwell household had spirited Mr. Johnson away 
and the couple had been located in this hotel, registered as 
man and wife. I was also told that Johnson was brought 
in here in a drunken semi-conscious condition, so serious 



342 


A ROOF 


that he was under the care of a nurse and the house physi¬ 
cian, who had already communicated with Dr. Currier in 
New York. I took a plane and flew here. I arrived at the 
hotel and sent for Mr. Horton, who was interviewing you 
at the time. Then, when I came on the scene myself, I saw 
the last girl I could have suspected of such criminal fraud 
and chicanery. Mary, you are in a bad way. You could be 
put in prison for years, kept there until you are an old 
woman. I am not afraid of Sammy Silverstein, nor of any 
agitation the Reds might incite in your favor. Our courts 
are not ruled by violence and riot influence. Once you are 
arrested, the case is out of my hands, and you stand at 
the bar, an offender against a Federal law. Now, Mary, you 
must make your decision—do you choose to deal with me, 
or with the United States Government?” 

"With you, Judge Ramsey.” 

He went to the telephone, called the office, asked for the 
toll operator, and looked in his notebook. "Please get Beek- 
man 3-3827, Samuel Silverstein, person to person call as 
soon as possible. Thank you.” 

"What are you calling Sammy Silverstein for?” Mary 
gasped. 

"Don’t you wish to consult your lawyer, before you 
make your decision?” Ramsey asked. 

"I don’t, Judge Ramsey, I don’t. I only wanted Sammy 
Silverstein in case I was arrested.” 

"At least ask Mr. Silverstein to suggest a Wilmington 
attorney to represent you during our coming interview.” 

"Please, Judge Ramsey, I don’t want to!” 

"Mary, I have no wish to deny you the presence of your 
own attorney.” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 343 

She rushed to the telephone. "It’s a mistake,” Mary in¬ 
formed the hotel office, "cancel the long distance call to 
New York.” 

"As you wish,” said Judge Ramsey; "but, Mary, if 
you deal with me, you must be truthful. Any prevarica¬ 
tion—and the Federal Government will deal with you 
through Mr. Silverstein, or any attorney you choose to 
represent you.” 

‘Til tell the truth, I’ll do anything, anything in the 
world, just so you don’t have me arrested, Judge Ramsey.” 

"Mary, are you and Abner Johnson married?” 

"Yes, Judge Ramsey.” 

"When and where?” 

"Elkton, yesterday.” 

"That’s your wedding ring, is it?” 

"Yes, Judge Ramsey.” 

"Who purchased it?” 

"Mr. Johnson.” 

"Were you with him at the time of the purchase?” 

"No, I wasn’t. He bought it, the day before yesterday, 
when he made all the arrangements, got the money from 
the bank for the trip, bought the railroad tickets.” 

"At what time of the day were these arrangements 
made?” 

"In the afternoon, by Mr. Johnson alone, by himself.” 

"Mary, you are not telling the truth. I know otherwise. 
Mr. Johnson was in his niece’s home for that entire after¬ 
noon, not out of the house for a moment. And, further¬ 
more . . .” 

"But, Judge Ramsey,” she interrupted, "wait till you 
hear the low-down on Wheatley, Mrs. Cromwell’s butler. 


344 A ROOF 

Mr. Johnson often went out by himself, after he got the 
goods on Wheatley.” 

And Mary recounted Wheatley’s crookery, Mr. John¬ 
son’s visit to the library, their luncheon together, the uncle’s 
opinion of his niece, her treatment of him, the trip to Elk- 
ton, the marriage, the luncheon at the roadhouse. 

"And, Judge Ramsey,” she continued, "when he woke 
up this morning, he claimed he was Abraham Lincoln, and 
the world had to know it.” 

"From what Mr. Johnson said, this morning,” the Judge 
asked slowly, "did he give you the impression that he had 
just arrived at this peculiar conception of himself?” 

"Oh, no, he said he knew he was Lincoln for some time 
past, but Mrs. Cromwell was a hypnotist; she’d always hyp¬ 
notize him out of it and would get him back at thinking 
he was her uncle, Abner Johnson.” 

Ramsey’s face paled in cold anger, anger at Mrs. Crom¬ 
well, Mary deduced, all news to the lawyer how crazy Mr. 
Johnson was. He said nothing, however, only went to the 
next room and closed the door. God, how she wanted to 
put her ear to the panel! He must be phoning from the 
other room, giving Mrs. Cromwell heck by long distance. 
He was gone ages, or what seemed ages. 

At last Ramsey appeared, walked across the room in 
silence to stand at the window. Mary could have reached 
and touched him with her hand, so near she heard the 
watch ticking in his vest pocket. His suit was light gray, 
wool, summer weight. But not like other men in their 
summer clothes, men who get sloppy, sweaty, untailored as 
the hot day wears on them. Nothing could affect Judge 
Ramsey’s distinction, or make him fail to be impressive. 
Even his hand on the window casement was strong, cool, 


345 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

clean, the nails faultless. Queer how an old man in his 
fifties could be so magnetic, so attractive, something very 
peculiar about Judge Ramsey, mysterious almost. And 
never married! Did he have affairs, have women, get pas¬ 
sionate over them? What was his love life? How did he 
take on, when he got going? Did Miss Elliot ever worry 
over losing him? Why didn’t she marry him, or why didn’t 
he marry her? Was it love, or friendship? If friendship, 
Miss Elliot was certainly a queer woman, not to fall hard 
for Judge Ramsey. 

Mary rose from the couch and took a chair farther from 
the window. He was too compelling at close range. She 
must resist Judge Ramsey’s magnetism, not yield to it. 
How cock-eyed, she was admiring him when she should 
have been strengthening her mind to hold her own against 
him! He sure had put her in a corner where she had to 
deal with him, or have "jailbird” tagged on her for life. Yes, 
she was cornered and had to get out of the corner. But 
she still had her rights—it was a legal marriage, good for a 
fair alimony. God knows she had earned alimony, all she 
had endured for the last twenty-four horrid hours! She 
must be hard-boiled, no weakening. The milk was already 
spilled. Judge Ramsey thought the worst possible of her, 
and scrambled eggs can’t be unscrambled. What did Judge 
Ramsey’s opinion of Mary Boots count against the general 
opinion Mamma would create for the family if the scandal 
of the baby wasn’t covered? 

"I’ve been treated like a dog,” Mary began, "I’ve been 
shown no consideration. I don’t have to stand it. Mr. 
Johnson married me legally, and I’ve got my rights to his 
property.” 

"Mary, I can’t believe I hear you say that. I cannot 


346 


A ROOF 


feel you are so sordid. What has happened to you? You 
are not the little girl I’ve known, the girl my dear friend, 
Miss Elliot, put every trust in. That is why I am so 
puzzled—I have never known Miss Elliot to be mistaken 
in her judgment of character. The first time I was permit¬ 
ted to see Miss Elliot in the sanitarium, you were the first 
one she asked for. She always mentions you with affection 
that touches me deeply, never deeper than I feel at this 
minute as I realize how unworthy you are, how you have 
failed Miss Elliot.” 

Ramsey waited, his eyes on Mary. He saw her lips quiver 
as her eyes lifted and met his, her face drawn and pale. 
Here, he felt, here was abject misery, pain—not acting. 
Acting is only calm and restrained when a subtle, astute 
intellect directs it. Mary’s more limited mentality would 
affect tears, sobs; she would storm into melodrama and 
ham her role. 

''Mary, in spite of all you have done, I can’t lose faith 
in you. I can’t lose faith in one who has Miss Elliot’s trust 
and affection. Mary, answer me—I want the truth. Why 
did you take advantage of a feeble-minded old man; why 
did you marry Abner Johnson?” 

"For five hundred dollars. I had to have five hundred 
dollars.” 

"Why did you have to have five hundred dollars?” 

"I couldn’t be sunk. I couldn’t see all my life and 
chances ruined.” 

"Mary, are you in trouble?” 

"Yes, Judge Ramsey, the worst trouble in the world that 
a girl like me could have.” 

Ramsey sat on the edge of the couch and wiped the cold 
sweat from his forehead. Was old Abner to leave a spurious 



347 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

heir as well as a spurious widow? He saw his plan for a 
secret divorce dissolve before his eyes. Mary, with a child 
to account for, would never consent to secrecy, now that she 
had succeeded in obtaining a husband and a reputed father. 

"But it’s not what you are thinking, Judge Ramsey,” 
she protested now; "I’m not in that kind of trouble. It 
is that kind of trouble, but not my trouble.” 

He rose quickly, bent over her, seized both her hands, 
t#ok her eyes and held them. "Mary, my poor child, what 
is your trouble?” 

"Mamma is going to have a baby,” she sobbed against 
her will; "the man wants to marry Mamma, a steady man, 
highly thought of by everybody.” 

"And your mother cannot marry this man, is that a 
part of the trouble?” 

"Yes, Judge Ramsey, Mamma can’t marry for three years 
yet, not until it’s five years since Papa deserted her.” 

"And the five hundred dollars?” 

"To get Mamma to Reno, to keep her there till the baby 
is born, then, to keep it somewhere else for a while, until 
after she is married to Mr. Plykas. Mamma is no one to 
desert her baby, and I would not ask it of her. But that all 
takes money, I had to have five hundred dollars, at the 
very lowest figure, to swing it.” 

For an instant, Mary thought Judge Ramsey would kiss 
her. He seemed about to, then, he didn’t. Maybe, he, too, 
thought he would, for that same instant. A wonderful 
instant, something between them like a current, the girl 
felt, he was so magnetic, so masculine that she sobbed a bit, 
her hands gripped on his shoulders. 

"How I trust you,” she stammered, "how I feel in my 
heart you will do the right thing by me!” 


348 A ROOF 

He disengaged her grip gently, holding her hands in 
his. 

“Just tell me that you don’t think the worst of me, Judge 
Ramsey. Say you understand, that you don’t look on me 
as a gold-digger.” 

Ramsey warmed—so easy to warm to Mary, to youth, 
fresh and fragrant. He dropped her hands as gently as 
he had taken them. He went back, slightly surprised at 
himself, to his seat by the window. No, he thought, he had 
pulled too many a client out of this same pit to stumble 
into it himself. 

“But, Judge Ramsey, you do understand?” she insisted. 

Ramsey checked himself before he spoke. The glow of 
her was in his veins, he must be cautious with his tongue. 

“Yes, Mary. I understand—you found yourself in am¬ 
bush, and, ambushed, you became a very unscrupulous 
young woman.” 

“Yes, I was desperate, you do see that?” 

“Quite.” 

“And I do want to know your opinion of me—you don’t 
know how much that means in my life.” 

“Mary, I still believe you can be unscrupulous. Candidly, 
I should never want to be the obstacle that stood between 
you and dire necessity.” 

The caustic announcement was self-discipline uttered 
for his own ears, rather than for Mary’s. And a mistake, 
Ramsey realized as he saw the girl, with density that was 
alkaline, sweeten the sentence into another interpreta¬ 
tion. 

“I know you won’t be an obstacle, Judge Ramsey. I feel 
you will see the right thing is done by me.” She came 
toward him as she spoke. 



349 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Ramsey rose. “Mary, we will dine quite early, this eve¬ 
ning,” he said and handed her a card and a dollar bill. 
“Run along now, take a taxi, go to the address on the card 
I’ve given you. It’s a nice cosy tearoom. Wait for me. I’ve 
a few things to see to first. But I’ll not be long. We will 
talk things over at dinner.” 

“But my bag, Judge Ramsey?” 

“Run along now, I’ll take care of your bag.” 


Chapter Twenty-Six 


Judge Ramsey did keep Mary waiting, a forty-five 
minute wait, every minute like an hour to her, especially 
after she had caught Finnigan’s reflection in a mirror as 
he paused in a doorway for an agonizing moment. 

"That awful man is here,” she informed the Judge when 
he arrived. "I saw Finnigan looking at me, all I could do 
to keep from screaming at the sight of him. He is a per¬ 
fect nightmare to me.” 

"Don’t worry, Mary; Finnigan has to eat, too, you know, 
and he’s quite an authority on cookery. In fact I chose 
this place on his recommendation.” 

"But I couldn’t touch a bite and have to see him.” 

"You shan’t. There’s a reservation made for us.” 

The reservation was a small, glass-inclosed porch, off 
the general dining room, quite to themselves without be¬ 
ing private. 

Mary scanned the menu. Several French terms were 
listed on the card. But that didn’t go over so well, show- 


350 


351 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

ing you had a French education—a perfect flop with Mr. 
Richards, souring him on her immediately. 

Judge Ramsey ordered a clear soup for himself, a freshly 
baked potato, rare steak, nothing more, except a chilled 
bottle of distilled water. His health was excellent, he said, 
Miss Elliot had not closed her Sutton Place house and Mag¬ 
gie still prepared all his meals. Miss Elliot, too, was on the 
mend, but would not take up her work at the Annex un¬ 
til next spring. Meanwhile, she expected to be abroad. 

"Mary, I dread to meet Miss Elliot, to hear her ask me if 
I have any news of how you progress in the Memorial li¬ 
brary.” 

"And when she knows about me! Oh, God, Judge Ram¬ 
sey,” Mary gasped in all sincerity, "I could die at the 
thought, what Miss Elliot is going to think of me when 
you tell her!” 

"But, don’t you realize, Mary, that as long as you wish 
to keep this unfortunate affair a secret, I can disclose it to 
no one, that I must regard it as a professional secret?” 

"How can it be a secret? The hotel people know it, Dr. 
Ballard knows it.” 

"Mary, Galsworthy said the grossest ignorance is know¬ 
ing too much of the wrong thing. Dr. Ballard and every¬ 
one who has come into contact with Mr. and Mrs. Johnson 
are in the blindest ignorance of true identities, they know 
altogether too many wrong things.” 

"What do they think?” 

"That a harmless, slightly demented old man’s friends 
came and took him back to his family.” 

"To New York?” 

"No, Chicago.” 

"But he told them he was from New York.” 


352 


A ROOF 


"He also told them he was Abraham Lincoln.” 

"But how can Dr. Currier be explained, a New York 
physician?” 

"Dr. Currier is an outstanding alienist, patients are 
brought to him from all parts of the country.” 

"And they think Mr. Johnson was brought to New York 
to Dr. Currier?” 

"Yes.” 

"And, in New York, a gold-digger got hold of him be¬ 
cause he was wealthy?” 

"Yes.” 

"But can’t you see the light that puts me in, Judge Ram¬ 
sey?” asked Mary in hot tears, her cheeks aflame. 

"Mary, can you make any suggestion, have you any 
explanation in mind that could convince those people that 
you were in love with old Abner Johnson?” 

"But, Judge Ramsey, think what I had to drive me 
to it!” 

"If you wish, you may go back to explain your predica¬ 
ment to the hotel staff and management, you may tell them) 
of your need for five hundred dollars.” 

He saw pallor fleck over the flushed face, a slow paling 
to ashy white. "I’m sorry, Mary,” he made amends, "I 
did not wish to hurt you.” 

"Judge Ramsey, I wonder what you do say, when you 
wish to hurt a person.” 

"I do not wish to appear cruel, but I do feel you must 
realize what it is to face facts, Mary, cold, hard reality.” 

"Judge Ramsey, you don’t begin to know what facts 
are the way I do. How Mamma is a fact. The baby is a 
fact. I’ve had nothing but facts till I’m about crazy with 
them. I had facts, all my life, facts I had to feel as well 


AGAINST THE RAIN 353 

as know, being hungry, being cold, being a little kid sit- 
ting up past midnight, helping Mamma on piece work she 
took home to finish. But it isn’t a fact that I got Mr. 
Johnson drunk and toted him around from one state to 
another, or married him in an unconscious condition. But 
that does not count—money can make anything look like 
a fact, regardless of truth. At present, the chief fact is you 
know I must dance to your music because I don’t want 
to be arrested and disgraced forever, I’ve got pride in 
being respectable. It’s pride that got me in this trouble 
—I couldn’t stand still and let Mamma disgrace the family 
and sink me.” 

Ramsey’s attitude changed under the poignant note in 
the girl’s speech. In her self-pity, Mary had been sincerely 
inspired. Her sympathy for herself, was, strangely enough, 
her own best advocate. 

"And another thing I want you to know,” she began 
again, "I never do a friend a dirty turn, I only do it to an 
enemy, to somebody I hate, and have a right to hate. I’d 
never have taken advantage of Mrs. Cromwell’s uncle if 
she had been fair with me, but Mrs. Cromwell is my worst 
enemy. If she had let me have the thousand dollars Mr. 
Goodrich left me, I could have sent Mamma to Reno, long 
ago, when her trouble first started. But that woman 
wouldn’t let me have the money, she kept it from me. 
She is the cause of all my trouble and I hate her, I hate 
her like poison. She always worked against me, she would 
not even let me be the president of the Senior Girls, after 
I’d been elected to the office. But that’s a little thing. The 
thousand dollars is a big thing, keeping it from me has 
ruined my whole life, not being able to send Mamma to 
Reno.” 


354 A ROOF 

"Mary, who told you Mr. Goodrich left you a thousand 
dollars?” 

"I heard Mrs. Cromwell tell Doctor Foster about it.” 

"Tell what?” 

"That Mr. Goodrich told you I should have a thousand 
dollars, and you made a fight for me to have it, that you 
said you’d keep at it till I got it, but had to compromise 
on the Annex job for me.” 

"And you overheard Mrs. Cromwell recounting all 
this?” 

"I didn’t overhear, I listened.” 

"Listened?” 

"I listened at the door to Mrs. Cromwell’s office at 
the Ann. Don’t you know you can hear things if you 
put your ear to the panel of a door when people are talking 
on the other side of it?” 

"No, Mary, I am unversed in the fine technique of 
eavesdropping; in fact, I have labored under the handicap 
that it is a dishonorable act.” 

"The time I listened, Dr. Foster had gone to Mrs. Crom¬ 
well to get me dismissed. I had my job, not honor, to think 
about just then.” 

"Mary, I take back something I said earlier: my refer¬ 
ence to an unscrupulous young woman. You are not un¬ 
scrupulous—you have fine principles and your own code. 
I have known many with less ethical codes. I have known 
others with more ethical. But I can recall no code so 
adaptable, so practicable as yours.” 

Mary did not receive Ramsey’s remark with her usual 
attentiveness—her mind was on the concrete, not the ab¬ 
stract, at the moment. Through the porch’s glass parti- 


355 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

tion, she had caught a fleeting glimpse of Finnigan at 
the farther door of the dining room. 

"That awful man is still here,” she gasped, "Fve just 
seen him!” 

Ramsey excused himself, left the table to disappear at 
the farther door where Finnigan had so lately appeared. 
He was away for five minutes or more. "The awful man 
is gone,” he announced on his return, "Finnigan is dis¬ 
missed, his services at an end. Mary, do you feel you can 
look upon me as your best friend, and dismiss me from 
your mind as Mrs. Cromwell’s lawyer? Think well before 
you answer that question. At the same time, you must 
understand that I am not throwing my own client down 
nor sacrificing my client’s interests. My client, as well 
as yourself, will benefit the more if you and I can come 
to definite terms, here and now. Think it over, whether 
or not you will leave your case in my hands. And the 
facts, Mary, all the facts, keep them also in mind before 
you decide on your answer.” 

"I don’t have to think them over, I’ve been too con¬ 
scious of all of them. If you were fair about my thousand 
dollars, I’m sure you will be fair with me again, Judge 
Ramsey.” 

"Mary, consider this offer: the Elkton marriage is a 
secret, the divorce will be a secret, the birth of the child 
will be a secret, the reason for its later adoption will be a 
secret—you will be a free woman, still Miss Mary Boots, 
and you will have a settlement of sixty thousand dollars. 
Sixty thousand, Mary, is a great deal of money, remem¬ 
ber. Sixty thousand dollars and your unsmirched respec¬ 
tability. On the other hand, you have the choice of dis- 


356 


A ROOF 


grace, making yourself a social outcast, and the gamble 
of realizing more than sixty thousand, and, probably, 
less. It might be years before you would ever see a cent 
of what you might finally be awarded, and that only 
after you have been dragged through all the filth and 
agony of court proceedings. And the publicity, Mary, 
the tabloids, everything of that sort. However, I also 
tell you there is the gamble that you might realize much 
more, in the end, than I offer you now. Also, Mary, bear 
in mind you will not be arrested, if you refuse this offer. 
In no case, will you be arrested. I give you my word for 
it, Mary, under no circumstances will the criminal charge 
be brought against you.” 

She opened her lips to answer, but stopped as a waiter 
entered to serve the soup. 

"Not a word yet,” Ramsey said at the waiter’s departure, 
"eat your soup. I’m sure it’s good, mine’s delicious.” 

"Me eat?” cried Mary, "why, God, Judge Ramsey, expect 
a girl to eat, a girl that’s just got sixty thousand dol¬ 
lars!” 

She rose and walked about the table, reversed, circled 
it again, recircled, went to a window and stood looking 
out. With no eyes, however, for the vista before her, Ram¬ 
sey thought; in the summer twilight settling down on 
Wilmington, Mary’s vision was blind to the houses across 
the street, to the darkening sky above them. For the 
nonce, she was Cinderella, Cinderella of the tenements. 
A precarious state for Mary, he feared; could she take it 
with a steadied keel? For her own good, he should have 
made it no more than a few thousand—not enough to spoil 
her, as old Simeon had said on his deathbed. But, for his 
client’s best interests, no, very much no. Tonight, Mary 


357 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

might see a few thousand dollars with big eyes, glad to 
take them—then, a slow awakening, a growing sense of 
injury to break forth at Abner’s death. No, Mary’s settle¬ 
ment could not be a mere pittance to entail more litigation 
when Johnson’s estate went into probate. With old Abner’s 
unsound state of mind, Ramsey saw new and multiple 
complications, far more than he had hitherto expected. 
His lips straightened—Cornelia would get hell from him, 
tomorrow. He had some pertinent questions to put to 
that woman—why had he not been informed of Abner’s 
mental condition, or that Abner was Dr. Currier’s patient? 
Why had he not been asked to consult with Dr. Currier 
before he drew up Abner’s will? Yet, one satisfaction 
was afforded Ramsey—as Cornelia had kept her uncle 
legally sane, Abner was responsible for his promises and 
contracts, he was married to Mary, he was engaged to Jorka. 
And, as with Mary’s alimony settlement, Jorka’s heart 
balm would come out of Cornelia’s pocket! Cornelia 
must not escape without a measure of punishment richly 
deserved. Suddenly, the lawyer felt at peace with fate and 
circumstances—the nicety of the balance! Ramsey warmed 
at the thought, Cornelia slapped with her own large 
capable hand, slapped soundly across her calm, immobile 
face! Tension gone, nerves relaxed, he turned to dine 
with a rare relish. The steak was perfectly grilled, the 
potato fresh from the oven. Mary’s fried chicken and 
various concoctions were on her side of the little table; 
but Mary was not, Mary still stood by the window. 

The Judge called her back, he disliked dining alone, 
he said. 

She took her place at the table. 

“Why aren’t you looking radiantly happy?” the man 


358 


A ROOF 


asked. "You know, Mary, it isn’t every little girl who 
suddenly finds herself worth sixty thousand dollars.” 

"But, Judge Ramsey, the responsibility of it, how to 
hold on to all that money—not lose it.” 

Ramsey was surprised and pleased together. Mary was 
as frugal as she was respectable, she had all the lower middle 
class virtues, no sudden rise to riches would upset the Boots 
girl. 

"What kind of car are you going to buy, Mary?” he 
asked. 

"I won’t buy a car. The gas, Judge Ramsey, its up¬ 
keep, the garage rental, they’d mount up something aw¬ 
ful.” 

"But you’d like a car, wouldn’t you?” 

"But not the expense of it!” 

"Now, Mary, I want you to have a car, I want you to 
enjoy yourself. To show you how much I think of you, 
I’ll include a car in your settlement. No expense, you send 
the garage and upkeep bills to my office, every month, and 
they’ll be paid from there.” 

"What kind of a car, Judge Ramsey, are you thinking 
of?” 

"How about a new Buick sedan with all the trim- 
mings? 

"A trunk behind?” 

"Yes, everything.” 

"A this year’s model?” 

"Certainly, and the swankiest, latest accessories, every¬ 
thing.” 

"You’re wonderful, Judge Ramsey.” And Mary con¬ 
sumed two mouthfuls of chicken breast. 

But the soothing effect of the car was short-lived. In 


AGAINST THE RAIN 359 

another minute, the girl’s brows were knit, her fork idle 
in her hand, her hand resting on the table. 

"What is it, now, Mary?” 

"The divorces will cost double, mine and Mamma’s, that 
will be about a thousand dollars out of the sixty, won’t 
it?” 

"All expenses connected with the divorces are a part 
of your settlement and not to be subtracted from the sixty 
thousand.” 

"Railroad fares and hotel bills included?” 

"Everything, Mary, and lawyer and court expenses.” 

"Then, Judge Ramsey, how about starting tomorrow for 
Reno?” 

"No, not Reno, Mary; Reno holds no secrets. I’m send¬ 
ing you and your mother to Demopolis in Arkansas. It 
will take ninety days in Arkansas, but Demopolis is quiet, 
no publicity. Reno is just the reverse of that.” 

"But the twins, Judge Ramsey. They’re in the Mem 
summer camp in South Jersey and the camp closes on the 
first Friday before Labor Day.” 

"I’ll take care of the twins. On the Friday before Labor 
Day, my secretary, Miss Cosgriff, will place them in the 
Episcopal sisters’ boarding school near Yonkers, and will 
outfit them for the fall season and see to all that sort of 
thing. It’s all right, and not coming out of the sixty 
thousand.” 

"Do you think I can get back my job at the Annex, 
when Miss Elliot takes charge of things again?” 

"That is a matter you and Miss Elliot will have to settle 
between yourselves.” 

But back Mary would go to the Annex, Ramsey told 
himself. The Ann was Mary’s salvation, and the solution 


360 


A ROOF 


to so much besides. Miss Boots, the social worker, the 
model of propriety, would never go to Sammy Silverstein 
as old Abner’s defrauded grass widow. Every portion 
added to Mary’s self-esteem was so much less fear of pro¬ 
bate complications in the future. 

"Judge Ramsey,” she broke in on his train of thought, 
"we could have covered Mamma’s going to Reno by say¬ 
ing she was visiting cousins in Canada, that the cousin 
sent her the money for the trip. But there is so much to 
cover now that I can’t see any way to cover it.” 

"I don’t quite get you, Mary.” 

"Why, the neighbors, of course, and the talking.” 

"That is important,” said Ramsey. All important, he 
thought, the good opinion of old neighbors was a big item 
in Mary’s cherished respectability. 

"The talk would be something awful,” she went on* 
"all the neighbors wondering where the money came from 
for trips, money to put the twins in boarding school, for 
the car, for our higher standard of living. It would ruin 
my reputation, especially if I wasn’t working at the 
Ann.” 

He thought of suggesting a new home, a new locale, 
then decided that the tenement girl’s stability was best 
assured by her pursuing her accustomed ways. 

"You told me you are English, that your parents were 
married when they came to this country.” 

"Yes, Judge Ramsey.” 

"Now, Mary, you have an Uncle William, who struck 
it rich in Australia. Your Uncle William has died, he 
has left you something of a fortune.” 

"But I haven’t an Uncle William.” 

"Don’t interrupt me, Mary, I’m in a creative mood.” 


361 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

The waiter removed the plates. He returned presently 
with an avocado salad for Mary. But she couldn’t think 
of touching another bite. Her eyes were fixed in silence 
on Judge Ramsey. Whatever could he be constructing? 
she wondered. 

"Mary, follow me closely.” Ramsey broke the silence. 
"Cinderella is the most popular story the wide world over. 
All sorts and conditions of humanity love to hear of her 
and to believe in her. Mary, as Cinderella, you are perfectly 
safe, no doubt will ever be cast on your story. Your Uncle 
William dies in Australia and leaves you, his favorite niece, 
a legacy.” 

"But the neighbors have never heard us speak of our 
Uncle William.” 

"They will recall your speaking of him when they 
know you have a legacy from him. Cinderella’s popularity 
is only equalled by her plausibility. Your Uncle William 
was a wild fellow, who left England, years ago, and bolted 
for Australia.” 

"Why Australia, Judge Ramsey?” 

"Because all well co-ordinated English families have 
this wild William relative in Australia. They always ex¬ 
pect to get definite news of him, either that he has been 
hanged, or amassed a vast fortune.” 

"Wouldn’t Oklahoma do as well and have an Uncle 
Henry?” 

"Why this preference for an Uncle Henry, for Okla¬ 
homa?” 

"Because Papa had a brother Henry in this country 
and when we last heard from him, he was in Oklahoma in 
a little place called Alda. The neighbors have heard us 
speak of him, lots of times.” 


362 


A ROOF 


"All right, Mary, this is the story, then: your Uncle 
Henry died, a short time ago, in Los Angeles. Los Angeles 
is preferable to Alda. As Uncle Henry becomes a fiction 
and the legacy is a myth, Los Angeles suits the purpose 
better than Alda. Place an incident in a locale as big and 
various as Los Angeles, and it is next to impossible to check 
up on your story. Tonight, you and your mother start for 
Los Angeles to see to the legacy your Uncle Henry has 
left you. That will satisfy the neighbors, I am quite 
sure.” 

"But the neighbors know we haven’t the money to take 
the trip!” 

"The money is telegraphed to you by your Uncle Henry’s 
lawyer, J. J. Murphy, who is also my correspondent in 
Los Angeles.” 

"For God’s sake!” gasped Mary. 

"For the sake of all concerned, amen,” breathed Ram¬ 
sey. 

"I’ve a special favor to ask. Please, Judge Ramsey, when 
the lawyer sends the telegram, say in it that I’m left ten 
thousand, not sixty.” 

"Why this concealment of wealth, Mary?” 

"I’ve been thinking it over. First of all, it might turn 
Mamma’s head, give her grand notions. I’ve always had 
to hold a hand on her, she’s that way, no idea of the value 
of a cent. Then, too, the neighbors would expect more 
of me, if they knew I had all that money. Chapel would 
expect more, I’d be put down as a general easy mark, al¬ 
ways pestered with all kinds of things, wanting donations 
from me. But my nature is different, I’m all for saving. 
I want my money to make more money for me.” 

"Mary, don’t you intend to enjoy your money?” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 363 

"I’ll enjoy it most, thinking it’s getting more. Of course, 
I’ll spend some of the income, but I’d like my job back at 
the Ann and I mean to keep working, and no nonsense 
from the family with them getting grand notions over a 
big fortune.” 

"I’m glad to hear you say that; for a few moments, I 
thought you meant to evade your income tax! But tell 
me, Mary, do you know much about travelling?” 

*Tm sure I can manage the trip to Arkansas.” 

“Now, with your mother’s condition, the hurry and 
everything, I’m afraid I am putting too much on you. 
I’ll arrange to have Mrs. Hopkins accompany you to 
Demopolis.” 

"Mrs. Hopkins! Who is Mrs. Hopkins?” 

"A smart woman, Mrs. Hopkins, a trained nurse who 
studied law and has been admitted to the bar. She will be 
invaluable in watching your mother’s health throughout 
the trip. Besides, she knows all the Arkansas ropes and 
will have you nicely settled before she leaves you in the 
hands of the lawyer in Demopolis.” 

"Will she have to know everything about me, about 
Mamma?” 

"All in the law business, Mary, professional secrets.” 

"You warn her to be careful of what she says before 
Mamma, please do, Judge Ramsey. The Demopolis end of 
it must be managed so that Mamma will not know I’m 
married and getting a divorce myself—she must think we 
are staying there on her account only.” 

"That will be perfectly managed. You will slip down 
to the little court house in Demopolis and get your decree 
—and no one, least of all, your mother, will be one whit 
the wiser.” 


364 A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

"But how will we account to Mamma for not going on 
to Los Angeles?” 

"That will be taken care of, Mrs. Hopkins will see to 
those details—she’s a remarkably clever woman.” 


Fourth Book 










Chapter Twenty-Seven 


The through train made an emergency stop at Letitia, 
a little town in Illinois. Effie Boots was carried from the 
Pullman on a stretcher—a rush to the Deaconesses’ Hos¬ 
pital and the operating table. Some hours later, the sur¬ 
geon told Mary it had been a close call for her mother, the 
child had been dead for sixty hours. 

But Mamma would not die, she could pull through, and 
nothing else mattered—only Mamma and Mamma’s safety. 
Judge Ramsey’s kindness was beyond belief—he answered 
Mary’s telegram by return wire. He ordered the best of 
everything for Mamma and backed it up with telegraphed 
money. But Mrs. Hopkins handled the money and went 
on controlling things in a sour, begrudging manner. That 
woman was the mean creature, nothing touched her, 
neither Mamma’s suffering nor her serious condition. All 
that Hopkins had on her mind was the delay in reaching 
Arkansas, acting like the premature birth was staged on 
purpose to hold up the legal business. She wouldn’t go 
to the baby’s funeral, not her. Instead, she found herself 


368 


A ROOF 


a cool corner on the hotel porch, parked her fat carcass 
in a hammock, her nose stuck in a novel she was reading. 

But Mr. Dwight, the Methodist Episcopal pastor, rode 
with Mary in the car behind the hearse. A respectable, sym¬ 
pathetic funeral—and such a consolation, everybody believ¬ 
ing it was a lawful baby. Of course, Mary had already seen 
to that essential, Mamma’s entry on the hospital record. It 
couldn’t have been slicker, having her put down as the 
widow of Alfred Boots, three months deceased. Papa’s mid¬ 
dle name was Alfred, although he never used it. As an extra 
precaution, Mary had declared a Chicago residence. Nothing 
like keeping your presence of mind, even in the progress 
of a serious operation. As Sammy Silverstein might say, 
it was an ironclad alibi, Mamma’s pedigree on the hospital 
records. 

Letitia was one of the oldest settlements in the state 
and the county’s rich dark loam had grown corn for 
more than a century past. The funeral car and the mourn¬ 
er’s car sped on, a palisade of maize stalks on both sides, 
a macadamed cut through rolling prairies densely cropped 
with the one staple, tall now, at the full luxuriance of 
waning August in Illinois. 

But Mary was neither conscious of the teeming earth 
about her nor of the sky above, a deep azure sky flecked 
with snowy cloud drifts. The Reverend Mr. Dwight be¬ 
side her was such a lovely young gentleman, not married, 
and so magnetic with the spirit of God in his soul—just 
something about that kind of a clergyman, even a Methodist 
one! How could she have lived through these last months 
without religion, her heart too dead to turn to Mr. Carew 
in her terrible troubles and sinful intentions? 


AGAINST THE RAIN 369 

Then, the cemetery, a break in the dense growth about 
it—the grave, a tiny coffin lowered into its dark depth. 
Mary stood, tense, rigid, her eyes on a world of rippling 
green, topping into golden tassel. The wind whipped her 
cheeks, brisk wind that swept the hilly prairies of corn. 
Corn, corn, corn everywhere. In the midst of the high 
cropped fields, the thickly clustered gravestones of dead 
corn-growers, these strange but kind people in Illinois. 
The comfort of Mr. Dwight’s presence, the inspiration of 
his words at the grave! "The divine grace give solace 
to this grief-stricken sister,” he prayed, "and, while it may 
seem past human understanding that her brother, this in¬ 
nocent little life, should be taken from her loving arms 
and tender care, God’s ways are not our ways. The divine 
purpose is hidden from our ken, but always we know it is 
for our best good in the end.” 

The girl sank to her knees. Jesus had not failed her. 
It was she who had failed Him, failed in faith—failed most 
grievously when Miss Elliot did not recover her health in 
five days. How mysterious are the ways of God! How God 
had watched over Mary Boots! How heaven had protected 
her purity in Mr. Richards’s apartment, in the hotel suite 
with Mr. Johnson! How everything had turned out for her 
best good in the end, and not even the baby to account 
for! To think of it—she had prayed for five hundred 
dollars! A miracle in itself—to ask for five hundred dol¬ 
lars, and then to receive sixty thousand! And she so 
unworthy of all the gifts which heaven had bestowed upon 
her! How wicked she had been, how sinful! But she had 
grace in her soul, grace to leave the wrong path and mend 
her evil ways; and Jesus, Who knew all things, could 
forgive her, Him knowing how she had been driven to 


A ROOF 


370 

it by circumstances. How thankful humans should be for 
religion, for the road always open for the strayed lamb’s 
return. Thank the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, the 
Blessed Trinity and the Communion of Saints for the 
grace of repentence. Oh, the power of religion, the re¬ 
demption it can work in the true believer! All that was 
the matter with the world was lack of religion, lack of 
grace to leave the wrong trail and retrace one’s false 
steps. 

Two days after the funeral, Mamma was taken off the 
hospital’s danger list. She was cheered up to no end by a 
letter from Mr. Plykas. The poor darling ninny—and the 
letter so common, so uneducated! 

Dear Mrs Boots, (he wrote) dear friend, 

I git leter wrot me from Miss Mary and sad nues you 
was took on trane and hard time you have in hospital 
and how near you come die. Plese you have Miss Mary 
writ me leter evry day and let me know how you git 
on. I am in grate worry over your condishon. Plese ast 
Miss Mary to writ me imedate about if it was Boy. 
Plese tel Miss Mary tel me if it was Boy. Plese find 
inclose P O order for Seven Dollars ($7.00) all I kin 
do for presend and more to folio later as I kin scrap 
money together. 

Yours very truly 

Constantine Plykas. your friend. 

Poor Mr. Plykas, he meant well and wasn’t to blame for 
being a Greek, a Socialist, and a bad speller! A few days 
later, he sent nine dollars; this week, eleven. 

Finally, Mary got her very important letter penned on 
excellent paper, the best the town had for sale. 


371 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Dear Judge Ramsey, 

Words and ink fail me in expressing my deepest 
gratitude for all you have done for my Mother in her 
serious illness. As I assured you in Wilmington I have 
not confided my private affairs to Mother and she 
knows nothing of them. She thinks her illness pre¬ 
vented us from going to Los Angeles and that Mr. 
Murphy, the lawyer, has seen to my interests without 
our coming there. Everything about all the unpleasant 
circumstances will be a secret that I will carry with 
me to the grave. 

I regret to have to tell you that Mother is not get¬ 
ting strong in any hurry as all her natural strength 
seems like it was taken out of her. She is not in dan¬ 
ger but is weaker than a cat and has to keep to her 
bed in the hospital. The main thing that holds her 
back from getting strong is how she is always in a 
worry over the twins and it never off her mind that 
Connie and Marge don’t like it in the school at Yon¬ 
kers for this is exactly what they both write in their 
letters and tell us how lonely and lost they feel at a 
boarding school. Please, Judge Ramsey, I beg of you 
to have your secretary put the little girls on the train 
and send them to Letitia as I know Mother would 
pick up at the first sight of them. 

Another point for your consideration is how Mrs. 
Hopkins is riding me over this delay in Letitia. She is 
trying to force me to go to Arkansas and leave my 
sick Mother behind me. She has her good points but 
has very little heart in her and no sympathy with me 
for wanting to stay with Mother. Yesterday she 
charged me with bad faith and some very unpleasant 
words were passed between us. Could you call her 
back to New York as I do not like her? 

Another matter very much on my mind and giving 


372 


A ROOF 


me very serious worries is a good paying investment 
for my settlement. As you know, Judge Ramsey, in¬ 
vestments are not very reliable and all the people who 
have lost their money in bad investments which I wish 
to avoid as you can understand. You know how banks 
have failed and how much money has gone up in smoke 
all through these bad years. I don’t need to tell you 
that United Can Preferred is considered the best stock 
on the market. As a matter of good faith I am honor 
bound not to consult anybody about how I should 
invest my settlement. I would never think to ask 
Mr. Silverstein about it and he such a good friend 
of the family for many years and our neighbor. For 
this reason I ask you for my settlement in United 
Can Preferred. 

Again thanking you for all the kindness you have 
shown to me and Mother and wanting you to know 
that I always remember you in my prayers and how 
much I feel that people like you were put in this world 
for a good purpose. My thoughts are very much on 
God these days and all He has done for me and how 
much you have been the instrument of a divine pur¬ 
pose. 

Very sincerely yours, 

Mary Josephine Boots. 

Not since he had read Bruce Marshall’s "Father Malachy’s 
Miracle” had Ramsey enjoyed anything more than the 
sanctimonious tone of Mary’s letter. Equally well did he 
enjoy himself as he passed the letter over his desk into 
Mrs. Cromwell’s hand. "Raw and naive together,” he 
said, "but quite to the point, Cornelia.” Then, he stretched 
out his long legs and leaned back in his chair to watch 
the woman’s face as she read the very legible hand. Every 


373 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

line was a red rag to the Cromwellian bull—Ramsey re¬ 
galed himself in the Ramsey manner, just the kick he 
needed. He had three hard, overworked weeks behind 
him, packed with sordid conflict. The encounters with 
Jorka of the blue and the brown eye had been a series 
of tempests, often perilous; but, fortunately, the sturdy 
laundress had not retained Mr. Silverstein, the poor man’s 
lawyer. The legal talent she secured was as mediocre as 
it was unscrupulous and blundering. But the case was 
settled now. Jorka was on the high seas, bound for her 
native Jugoslavia with her recently divorced husband 
and a snug little fortune for heart balm. Acting on Mary’s 
tip, Ramsey had suggested that Wheatley’s accounts be 
audited. They were audited and the butler was found 
guilty. Then, without consulting her lawyer, Mrs. Crom¬ 
well had discharged the unfaithful steward. Revenge burn¬ 
ing in his heart, Wheatley had gone to Herbert Johnson 
to inform him that all was not right in the uncle’s upper 
storey. The butler told of Jorka, the Lincoln hallucina¬ 
tion, and a few other items of like import. But, as Wheat- 
ley knew nothing of Mary Boots, the Elkton marriage was 
not disclosed. With three more or less marriageable daugh¬ 
ters on his hands, Cousin Herbert had no desire to pub¬ 
licize a mental taint in the Johnson blood when Uncle 
Abner’s estate should go into probate. Consequently, Mr. 
Herbert Johnson took immediate steps through his legal 
talent, O’Neill, Shapiro, Hogan, & Markowitz. For the 
last ten days, Ramsey had encountered this formidable 
array of old Erin and still older Judea in the joust of the 
conference chamber. Ramsey’s proffered terms were fi¬ 
nally accepted and, not half an hour ago, Mrs. Cromwell 
bound herself to surrender a fifth of her net inheritance 


374 A ROOF 

after Abner Johnson’s estate had gone peacefully through 
probate. 

Mrs. Cromwell laid the letter back on Ramsey’s desk. 
"Hector,” she asked, "will that Boots woman ever finish 
her convalescence?” 

"No, I don’t think she will, Cornie, until Mrs. Hopkins 
is recalled and she has her children with her.” 

"Get them to her, do anything to hurry the divorce. 
What if Uncle Abner should die before the decree is 
granted?” 

"He would leave a widow, Cornelia.” 

"But could it not be arranged to have the divorce ef¬ 
fected, regardless?” 

"No, Cornie. I have done many things for the John¬ 
sons and Cromwells, but I draw the line at being a party 
to divorcing a dead man.” 

"My uncle’s condition is very precarious, the result of 
his heavy drinking with Wheatley’s connivance.” 

"Don’t worry yourself, Cornelia. The girl is not a bad 
sort. She will keep her agreement with me, even if Abner 
should die before the decree is granted.” 

"Send her to Nevada, hurry the case through.” 

"Never in the world, Cornelia—too many keen-nosed 
newshounds are ranging about Nevada. They’d smell Mary 
out—and, then, publicity! The girl is as tender on that 
point as you are. But, once exploited, I would not answer 
for her.” 

"Why?” 

"She’s ashamed of what she has done. But, advertise 
it, and, naturally, she would want the game as well as the 
name. Remember, too, she is no fool, that girl.” 

"What is the worst the Boots girl could do, in case she 
breaks faith with you, Hector?” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 37J 

"Just this: Mary Josephine Boots Johnson could sit 
pretty, and, in the Johnson manner, wait hopefully.” 

"Wait for what?” 

"For the dire summons, the Angel of Death, Cornelia.” 

"Hector, your Scotch humor is too often as inappropriate 
as it is wantonly caustic.” 

"Sorry, Cornelia, I apologize, but I’ve been woefully 
fed up on Johnsons for the last three weeks. By the bye, 
there’s another matter I want definitely understood: when 
Annie is back again on the job, Mary Boots returns to the 
Annex. The more reputable Mary Boots feels herself, the 
safer for all concerned.” 

"If Annie wants her, Annie is welcome to her.” 

"And, Cornelia, welcome or unwelcome, Mary must have 
that little slice of United Can.” 

"Yes, I am afraid so,” agreed Mrs. Cromwell reluctantly. 
"If the girl lost the money in an unwise investment, she 
might be troublesome, later on. But, Hector, you will 
keep an eye on her, won’t you? I don’t like this Silver- 
stein person in the offing. He is a frightful menace, the 
trouble he is making at present for Charlie Corliss, that 
ridiculous damage suit, you know.” 

"It was coming to Charlie. I’m shedding no tears for 
Corliss.” 

"But you will keep an eye on the girl in future?” 

"Gladly, Cornelia, gladly.” 

"Gladly? I do not quite understand you, Hector.” 

"I wouldn’t have missed Mary Boots for anything. 
Neither would Annie.” 

"It is quite beyond me, Hector. You certainly have 
peculiar tastes, you and Annie.” 

"They don’t come like Mary Boots, not very often, 
in my range of experience.” 


376 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 


"How absurd, Hector!” 

“I’m old fashioned, Cornelia. I find Mary delightful. 
She’s broadly characterized, as I see her, over-emphasized, 
and so transparent. I have that turn of mind, I fancy— 
I still read Dickens and Thackeray.” Ramsey paused, then 
added, "I like the girl. Annie likes her immensely—there’s 
something rather rare in that girl.” 

"Now really, Hector!” 

"I find a lot in Mary to admire; and, Cornie, she would 
never have cost you those sixty shares of United Can if 
you had let her have the money old Simeon wished to leave 
her. Even at that, I doubt if Mary would have married 
your uncle unless she was nursing an injury, brooding 
over the thousand dollars you denied her.” 

"What does she know about that money?” 

"She knows all about it and that you tried to keep her 
from getting it.” 

"How could she know of it?” 

"An indiscretion on your part, Cornelia, your passing 
that little secret along to Martha Foster.” 

Mrs. Cromwell flushed—a slight flush; but, slight as 
it was, a gratifying sight to the Ramsey eyes—for once, 
Cornelia betrayed an emotion. 

Hector shifted to another topic—he wanted to hear no 
questions, he wished to give no explanations. No need 
for Cornelia to discover that the pretty ear of Mary Boots 
was not above the questionable practice of eavesdropping. 


Chapter Twenty-Eight 


A cold, bleak December afternoon when the Boots fam¬ 
ily, in a new sedan with an Arkansas license plate, ap¬ 
proached the Holland Tunnel. But Mary’s thoughts were 
not on her own near distant Manhattan. For the last two 
days, but one thought had held her mind, the memory of 
her scouting trip to Youngstown. She had not taken 
Mamma and the twins with her—they had been left in 
Canton to round out the city’s cinema presentations. Near¬ 
ing Lance’s home town, Mary discovered her gas was low. 
She turned in at a filling station, kept by an old man, a Mr. 
Quigley, who waited on her in person. 

"Please, Mr. Quigley, will you check my oil?” Mary 
asked when her tank was filled. 

The boss dipped in his gauge, then, held it up to show 
the crank-case was full. He felt the oil and pronounced 
it fresh and good. 

"Thank you, Mr. Quigley, that’s certainly honest of you, 
not selling me oil when it isn’t necessary.” 

He ate it up, pleased with himself. Pleased and good- 
natured, Mary felt Mr. Quigley might be talkative and she 


377 


378 


A ROOF 


could sound him out and get some line on Lance. Of course, 
a filling station man would know all the news, especially 
about any people as prominent as the Lansings. 

"By the way,” Mary smiled her sweetest, "what would 
be a good bank for me to get a check cashed in, when I get 
to Youngstown?” 

"For that, young lady, I’d say one bank is as good as 
another, all a matter of having yourself properly identified.” 

"How about the Mahoning Bank?” 

Mr. Quigley’s face turned red in anger, the veins stood 
out on his forehead. "Hell, girl, where have you been 
the last few months? Can’t you read? Don’t you know 
that damn bank and trust company has blown up, higher’n 
Ben Franklin’s kite?” 

"No, I didn’t know,” gasped Mary. 

"Had any money in it?” 

"No, but the Lansings were friends of mine. I knew 
the young gentleman.” 

"Then, being as they’re friends of yours, you must ex¬ 
cuse me. I’ve nothing good to say of a Lansing, whether 
it’s the young one or old Jake, the dirty crook that’s 
robbed me of a lifetime’s savings.” 

When Mr. Quigley said that, he looked so terrible that 
Mary started her car and drove on to the next service sta¬ 
tion. Here, an attendant went through the motions of 
adding an unnecessary quart of oil. The man had a tricky 
eye, Mary thought, but he was talkative. Mr. Lansing 
was in jail in Youngstown. He was going to the Pen. And 
public feeling was very strong against him. 

"But one can’t help but feel sorry for Mr. Lansing’s 
family,” said Mary; "or has Mr. Lansing a family?” 

"Old Jake has a boy, but no more family than that.” 


AGAINST THE RAIN 379 

"Where is the boy?” and the girl’s voice quavered on 
the question. 

"If you wait a minute, Bill will be back here, and Bill 
can tell you about Ev Lansing—he and Ev went through 
grade school together. That was Ev, all right; he never 
tried to put on any front on account of the old man’s 
money.” 

"Was old Mr. Lansing a crook?” 

"Young lady, they’re all crooks; and honest people like 
you and me haven’t a Chinaman’s chance in this cock¬ 
eyed world.” 

"How did the bank and trust company come to fail?” 

"Old Jake bit off more than he could chew; and, while 
he was doing some hard swallowing, his enemies got him by 
the windpipe. They’ve got him pretty, he’s headed straight 
for a sentence, sure as preaching.” 

Then, Bill, Lance’s friend, appeared. 

"Ev’s gone to Warren,” he told Mary, "got him a job 
with the Harris-Dietman concern, manufacturing chem¬ 
ists.” 

"How is young Mr. Lansing taking his father’s trouble?” 
she asked. 

"On the chin, standing up, fighting like hell, claiming 
his old man’s been framed.” 

"Has anything been saved for Mr. Lansing, the young 
gentleman, I mean?” 

"Not a red cent.” 

"Do you know if he’s all right?—his health, I mean.” 

"I haven’t seen Ev since he went to Warren, over a month 
ago. He looked kinda thin and peaked, but didn’t seem 
in any decline that I could notice. He wasn’t whining none 
about his affairs.” 


380 


A ROOF 


The sedan did not drive on to Youngstown—it turned 
and took the road back to Canton. Mary wished she were 
sorrier than she was for Lance. It almost frightened her, 
the evil that was in her heart, that Lance had a father 
who was a match for her own jailbird brother. Now things 
were equalled up between a boy with a father in the pen 
and a girl with a brother in Elmira. Now, she could marry 
Lance—and she was going to marry him, just as soon as 
she had built up enough background for herself and had 
sufficient credentials to prove she wasn’t a phony and a 
cheat. For Lance, she had no worry of losing him. He was 
on ice, as it were—declasse, poor, of no further attraction 
to that scheming bitch, Sylvia, nor Peggy, either. A creature 
like Sylvia could only be after him for his money, she 
couldn’t appreciate his fine traits, his high character. How 
she hated that girl, Sylvia: Sylvia was to blame for every 
wrong idea Lance had—if she hadn’t chiseled in, that 
Sunday, Mary would have had it all explained to Lance 
before he met Mamma. And Lance did love her, he even 
said as much, said he was willing to go to any length for 
her. How different things would have been in that case! 
Never would she have married Mr. Johnson if she had 
had Lance behind her, already engaged to him. And so 
unnecessary! The baby was dead when Mamma took the 
train for Arkansas. Everything could have been managed 
at the New York end—Mr. Plykas would have had Mamma 
rushed to Bellevue and attended to without a single neigh¬ 
bor knowing a thing about it. Oh, God, if it could only 
have turned out that way! But Sylvia ruined such a 
chance for Mary, and now Mary had to feel she had been 
a dirty little gold-digger. Some day, too, Mary would 
meet Mrs. Cromwell, face to face; and the shame of it, to 
know how Mrs. Cromwell must despise her. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 381 

At this moment, Mary caught sight of her face in the 
car’s mirror. Dear Lord, what an expression! No, these 
were no thoughts to think, thoughts no beauty could stand 
up under. Mary must turn her mind to the future and 
work out some plan to get squared with Lance, to marry 
Lance and make him happy. 

The Boots family were again settled at 17 Goodrich 
Place. But only up one flight now; a larger, roomier flat 
than the old one on the fifth floor. But such a sad return 
to the Neighborhood, arriving in time for Mr. Cohen’s 
funeral. To think that he had died the day before—the 
dear old soul, a fussy person with the kindest heart in the 
world. At the funeral Mrs. Cohen’s grief would have 
touched a heart of stone—she fainted twice, once in the 
Temple and again at the grave. 

In a week Mrs. Cohen was after Mamma, hammer and 
tongs, all dead set to get Mamma back to the delicatessen 
store. The neighbors all thought Mamma should go back 
and they said the business had fallen off when Mamma left 
it, that no one could equal Mamma’s cooked meats, pastries, 
and salads. But Kathleen Cohen, now married well and 
living in Grand Concourse, wanted to sell the business. 
Kathie felt it was time for her mother to live with her and 
take life easy. Mary agreed with Kathie and put her foot 
down on Mamma’s taking back her old job. Mamma was 
pigheaded at first, all for working at Cohen’s again. It cer¬ 
tainly took a lot of argument to convince Mamma that 
Mrs. Cohen would be happier with her married daughter in 
Grand Concourse. Mrs. Cohen herself could not be con¬ 
vinced—she wouldn’t think of selling out—and she started 
out to run things on her own. 

Inwardly, Mary’s motives were not so altruistic as they 



382 


A ROOF 


appeared on the surface—she knew Mamma was a valuable 
asset in a delicatessen kitchen, she felt Mrs. Cohen hadn’t 
it in her to carry on the business. Charity begins at home; 
and, when Mamma went into a delicatessen again, she 
would go into her daughter’s store—just wait a few months, 
and Mrs. Cohen would sell out, Mary assured herself, at a 
very reasonable figure. 

Life and New York took up again for the Bootses, a 
fuller life, a more comfortable life. Effie was herself again 
once more and Demopolis was a dismal memory. Those 
awful three months when she could have died for the need 
of a good laugh, if it had not been for Mrs. Castleman, a 
very wealthy, a very jolly lady, and a Socialite, no less. But 
a lady with a conscience in her breast as well as a funnybone 
in her elbow—no tricks in Mrs. Castleman’s divorcing her 
husband, no absent-treatment methods for her decree. With 
a maid to wait on her, she lived in a trailer, a tiny palace 
on wheels it was. Believe it or not, but for some reason, this 
grand lady took a fancy to a plain humble body from Good¬ 
rich Place. They had great times together, she and Effie. 
No end of fine drinks, either—Mrs. Castleman had a way of 
seeing to that. And no repeal in Arkansas, it still a Pro¬ 
hibition State, dry as a bone. 

But, dear Lord, sighed Effie, what a puzzle to any poor 
mother, a daughter like Mary. As the Upjohn gamekeeper 
in the Old Country had hatched partridge eggs under a 
hen, so had she sat on a strange egg. Mary now had a private 
teacher, called a tutor—just as if all the culture and refine¬ 
ment from the Mem were no longer good enough for that 
girl. Not only that, but Mary was tutoring the twins, 
Upjohnning her little sisters—and them liking it, perfectly 
willing to be Upjohnned. What an odd hen Effie felt with 



AGAINST THE RAIN 383 

this strange, fancy brood of hers! But, why worry? Wasn’t 
it, as her father used to say, all in a body’s lifetime? What’s 
the odds, anyway? Suffer pain—and forget it. Fight as 
long as there’s sense in fighting, and when licked, make the 
best of it. Isn’t it all in one’s lifetime? Life must go on, and 
every poor devil should grasp at each straw and scrap of 
merriment in this unhappy world, so difficult for poor 
folk. 

So did Effie dismiss unpleasant realizations and yield to 
the urge of her own carefree, buoyant spirits—the cheer 
of old Neighborhood associates, the enjoyment of the new 
comforts that Uncle Henry’s legacy had brought to her 
and hers. In spite of her American speech and manners, 
she was English at heart; she could not understand this de¬ 
sire to rise in the world, all this bother and worry and 
troublesome climb to higher station. Station did not mat¬ 
ter—only life mattered, life and the enjoyment one might 
get out of living with a clear conscience and the hope of 
heaven. 

As the winter progressed, Mrs. Cohen was glad enough to 
sell a losing business—and Mary was more than glad to buy 
it. Mr. Plykas’s sister, Mrs. Attillos, the one he paid the 
rent for, was an intelligent and able-bodied woman—no 
reason why she should not be self-supporting. So she was 
taken on at the delicatessen. In no time, Mrs. Attillos was 
worth double what Mary paid her, a wonder in the kitchen, 
the way she could carry out Mamma’s recipes and remember 
her instructions. Mamma proved another surprise, the 
salesmanship she had in her, once Mary put her behind the 
counter—simply marvelous, how Mamma could lead the 
customers on to buy more than their original intentions. 


A ROOF 


384 

Nothing in the world like having your own business and 
the right people working for you. 

Queer, too, about arithmetic and Mary. The two had 
never mixed at school. But they got very friendly together 
at the delicatessen’s cash register and bookkeeping system. 
In a way figures are much like babies—when they are 
yours, they bring their own love with them—no task at 
all to add and multiply when the answers show a personal 
profit. The store was also a godsend to poor little Nannie 
Cody, a bright kid who could never rate a job because she 
stuttered. How glad she was to work for Mary, ready to 
take any pay offered her. But Mary’s conscience was clear 
—the Cody family was well fixed, the father a well paid 
mail clerk under civil service. And how happy little Nan¬ 
nie was, how proud to be able to say she was working. She 
had been so sunk, twenty-two and never able to get a job 
before. She sure was in clover now, feeling so important 
to have her own spending money. JT 

Mr. Plykas, now living with Mrs. Attillos, called on 
Mamma once a week and took her and the twins to the 
movies. People were beginning to tell Mamma that it 
looked like he had designs on her now that she was a free 
woman. Mamma always laughed that off, making light 
of it, and giving the impression that nothing could be 
farther from her mind than the thought of ever marrying 
again. But they would be married in June; Mary had it 
all planned—no hurry about the marriage, nothing that 
might cause any talk in the Neighborhood. Then, with 
Mamma married, Mary would take a small apartment in a 
nice street and rent a room to a gray-haired lady. A very 
respectable set-up, a good background for herself, some¬ 
thing that could not fail to impress Lance when she would 


AGAINST THE RAIN 385 

get around to see him and square herself with him. And 
how she herself suffered for Lance in his terrible trouble! 
Things couldn’t be worse for him; the other day it was in 
the papers that old Mr. Lansing got a ten years’ sentence. 
And Lance so proud, so noble! How her heart bled for him, 
how she had cried for an hour after she read the news! 
But Mary could not go to him now, she must wait until she 
had a proper build-up for herself. Then, too, she needed 
more tutoring—she must be more like the girls Lance had 
been accustomed to, she must have an air, a certain dis¬ 
tinction of speech and manner. How sorry she felt for 
Lance on account of his father’s sentence! Still, when she 
and Lance were married, there was her own brother, Freddy, 
on the horizon. Fred would be on the horizon, all right, 
when he got out of Elmira. Mary could see it ahead— 
Freddy in continual trouble with the police, a punk who 
would as soon steal as eat. Of course, like all married 
couples, she and Lance would have their rows. But he 
could not very well throw a jailbird brother in his wife’s 
face, not with his own dad in the same boat. 

Before very long, Mary had something else in the back of 
her head. There was Mr. Schneider, now doing so well with 
a prepared mayonnaise salad dressing on the market. 
Mamma used to work for him and she knew everything 
that went in Schneider’s mayonnaise. Maybe one of these 
days Mary Boots would have her own mayonnaise on the 
market, beginning in a small way. If Herman Schneider 
was making big money on that recipe, why not she? 

It was spring again, almost June. Oh, to think how 
things were, this time last year! That Mary had ever lived 
through that hell on earth! What could she do to show 


386 


A ROOF 


heaven she was thankful; ought she give a good donation to 
the Chapel, or to St. Botolph’s Hospital? Then it came, a 
sudden inspiration—she gave Nannie Cody a raise, one dollar 
and a half more a week. Like a sign of God’s approval, no 
sooner did Nannie get the pay increase than Mary got a 
note from Miss Elliot. Only a short note, a few lines that 
she was expected at the Long Island place next Sunday 
afternoon. However, who knew what might happen? So 
Mary packed a week-end bag and put it in the car’s trunk, 
just a forethought in case of a lucky emergency—and the 
hope that Miss Elliot might ask her to stay for a little visit. 

Judge Ramsey was on the veranda when Mary arrived 
that Sunday afternoon. He was friendly, very friendly. 
But he did not go into the house with her—he went for 
a walk on the beach alone, his hands behind his back. 

In the living room Miss Elliot stood by the fireplace, a 
tall silhouette in the mellowed light of a gray day. As 
Mary came to her, she pushed the girl’s hair back with a 
quick hand that swept Mary’s hat to the floor. 

"Mary Boots, have you ever lied to me?” were Miss 
Elliot’s first words. "Look me in the eyes,” she demanded 
as her other hand tilted the girl’s head; "answer me, have 
you ever lied to me?” 

Plain, much plainer than this day’s gray light—Miss 
Elliot knew everything, Judge Ramsey kept no secrets 
from her. 

"No, Miss Elliot, I never lied to you. God strike me dead 
this minute, if I ever lied to you!” 

"Why particularly not to me?” 

"I don’t know, Miss Elliot,” said Mary; "I never felt I 
had to lie to you, even before I got to look on you as a real 
friend.” 


387 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

“Why, Mary, I want to know?” 

“I don’t know, Miss Elliot, except I’ve never been afraid 
of you. I don’t think anybody is.” 

“Yes, Mary, everybody lies to someone because every¬ 
body is afraid of something. Even I have lied. I’ve said 
'Thank you,’ for many a dull evening. I’ve avoided hurt¬ 
ing the feelings of friends and kin. But you have had 
reason to be afraid of life and I believe I understand. Now, 
stop whimpering!” as the girl broke into throat rasping 
sobs. 

Mary’s sobs subsided with gasps. “But, Miss Elliot,” she 
struggled for words, “I’ve so much to tell you. It’s such a 
long, awful story, that I feel—” 

“No, Mary Boots, you’ll tell me no long, awful story. 
What I want to get straightened out is this: can you man¬ 
age this delicatessen business of yours and do justice to your 
old job at the Ann?” 

“Oh, yes, I can, Miss Elliot! I have the store down to a 
system. It only takes a few hours of my day, things I can 
go over when I leave the Ann around five in the after¬ 
noons.” 

“You are being tutored, Judge Ramsey tells me.” 

“I need it, I feel I need more background; and, when 
Mamma gets married next week, I’ll find myself a little 
apartment in a nice street and take in a professional woman 
as a roomer; a schoolteacher, most likely, an oldish person.” 

“Mary, why not make your home with me? I’d like to 
have you in the house.” 

"Me, Miss Elliot, me in your house?” 

“I’ve just asked you, haven’t I?” 

“But, Miss Elliot, I’ve done such awful things while you 
were sick, things you’d despise me for.” 


388 A ROOF 

“I’d probably have done no better myself, had I been 
in a like predicament.” 

After that conversation centered about the Ann. Miss 
Elliot had plenty enough ears now for long and awful 
stories—it would seem she couldn’t hear enough of Dr. 
Foster, of Mr. Lambeth. Most of all, she enjoyed what Mr. 
Morrissey had said of the Foster administration, all his 
witty remarks. Mary retailed everything with faithful ac¬ 
curacy—Mary had an excellent memory. 

When Judge Ramsey returned from his stroll along the 
beach, Mary went into the little study off the living room. 
First, the Judge wanted to know how Miss Elliot had man¬ 
aged with Mary. When Miss Elliot told him, he approved 
of everything, even to Mary’s living in Sutton Place—he 
said Mary was a smooth article and her presence would not 
raise any domestic complications. "And, Annie,” he added, 
"what wouldn’t you give to see Cornelia Cromwell’s face 
when she learns that Mary is a member of the home circle?” 

Miss Elliot laughed and said she would pay anything for 
that rare sight. "But, Hector, Cornelia will charge it solely 
to spite on my part. She will see it in no other light than 
that I am boosting Mary to annoy her.” 

"And, Annie, it will annoy Cornelia. All said and done, 
Mary has bested Cornie—and Cornie has no comeback; 
Mary’s respectability is Cornelia’s protection.” He laughed. 
"Oh, how Cornelia hated to release those sixty certificates!” 

"I wonder what Mary thinks of it all!” 

"She’s had a very good idea, probably a still better idea 
now. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mary’s ear is at that door, 
this minute. But please don’t get Mary wrong, Annie. 
Mary would never put her ear to a door unless she knew the 
conversation vitally concerned herself. I like Mary’s code, 
Annie, it’s a fine code, so . . 




389 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Mary’s ear came from the panel—she tiptoed across the 
room, noiselessly opened the low casement window and as 
noiselessly stepped over the ledge to the veranda. And 
sure enough, she fooled Judge Ramsey, the guilty look that 
must be on his face, this very instant! Opening the door 
to the study—and finding that she wasn’t even in the 
room while he was talking to Miss Elliot! 

What a lovely week, a whole week on Long Island, such 
a nice visit! Judge Ramsey also took the week off for a 
rest from law business. Miss Elliot’s illness had softened 
her wonderfully, she even played chess with the Judge, a 
game she utterly hated. Otherwise, it was much the same 
as it used to be, Mary thought—a settled couple, devoted 
but a little tired of each other. 

This chess business! And Mary Boots? But what Mary 
Boots either liked or disliked did not enter the question, she 
told herself. A girl is not taken from Goodrich Place to 
Sutton Place for her own fun—she is taken for the fun she 
can contribute. As little Tommy Tucker sang for his 
supper, so must Mary Boots. Chess might be the bore for 
her that it was for Miss Elliot, but, nevertheless, she was 
going to learn it and learn it good; no, learn it well, Mary 
corrected herself as became a privately tutored young 
woman. 

Then the glorious Monday morning when Miss Elliot 
with Mary at her side sailed triumphantly into the Ann’s 
affairs again. The tympany and brasses of the Ann Senior 
Orchestra had taken the half day off, and there all the boys 
were on the sidewalk, bursting into "Hail to the Chief” 
as Miss Elliot stepped from her car. 

The excitement over, the crowds of people who had 
come to greet her finally dispersed, Miss Elliot went to her 


390 


A ROOF 


old desk where Mrs. Cromwell and Mr. Keeley stood wait¬ 
ing. Mr. Keeley was a capable worker who had been put 
in charge last autumn when Mrs. Cromwell got rid of 
Dr. Martha Foster. 

"Good morning, Annie,” said Mrs. Cromwell very 
pleasantly. 

"Good morning, Cornelia,” said Miss Elliot, equally 
pleasant. 

The easy manner of them, thought Mary, and this was 
the first time they had spoken to each other in years! 
Mary hurried to a side room—she just hadn’t it in her, the 
brass to confront Mrs. Cromwell, she a gold-digger in that 
woman’s eyes. 

In another hour, everything at the Ann was going on 
the same as before; Miss Elliot was surprised at the shipshape 
condition of every department. "That Keeley was an ef¬ 
ficient man,” she told Mary; "but technique was all he had. 
The old tone that distinguished the Ann from the Mem 
is sadly missing—the color, the rhythm, if you get what 
I mean.” 

Dressed for her wedding, Mamma looked almost beautiful 
in a blue print crepe and white straw hat trimmed with blue 
flowers. The sickness in Letitia had taken pounds off her— 
she was now a stylish stout but not what you could call a 
fat woman. For some months, Mr. Reeder had been trying 
to court her, the same, too, for Mr. O’Leary, the mortician, 
a widower himself now. Mr. O’Leary was a great catch 
with his three undertaking establishments, all making 
money. But something very fine and delicate in Mamma’s 
feeling that she must marry Mr. Plykas, the only man who 
could make her an honest woman in her own estimation. 


391 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Mary admired her mother, admired her all the more because 
Mr. O’Leary was attractive and Mamma would be happier 
with him. He was so jolly, full of fun and jokes—and 
Mamma herself of much the same light-hearted disposition. 
On the other hand, Mr. Plykas could not understand the 
simplest joke, no idea of fun whatever. Of course, he was 
up on Socialism and old Greek history, subjects which 
Mamma said gave her a pain in the neck. 

But other worries than these were on Mary’s mind as she 
helped Mamma get dressed this morning—how about 
Mamma’s breediness and the kids this marriage would bring 
into the family? Dear Lord, she might have any number 
of them between now and her change of life! 

"God love the child, what’s ailing her?” asked Effie. 
"Dearie, you look more like you was dressing me for my 
coffin. Whatever can it be that’s aching you so?” 

"Babies, Mamma, and how that is going to hurt the busi¬ 
ness, keeping you out of the store for months at a time, 
maybe.” 

"Babies, your eye!” exclaimed the bride. "Don’t let that 
worry you none,—I’m on now. Wasn’t I thick with 
Mrs. Castleman when I was to Demopolis last fall? She 
told me what the high-hats uses. They’s expensive, but 
nothing like the cost of a baby. I got a box of them things 
in my suitcase, I bought ’em, yesterday. And, take it from 
me, dearie, there is going to be no more babies in this 
woman’s family!” 

After the ceremony in City Hall, Mr. and Mrs. Plykas 
took a bus for a brief honeymoon in the beach cottage of 
a Greek friend of the bridegroom. 

"Mamma is as she is,” Mary told the twins on their re¬ 
turn to Goodrich Place. "We must love her and do all we 


392 


A £.OOF 

can to make her happy; but she is not your pattern. If any 
one of you ever takes up with a boy on the order of Mr. 
Plykas, I’ll chuck you both into the boarding school at 
Yonkers, much as you hate it. I’m rising in the world and 
my sisters must be a credit to me. Anybody with the 
proper ambition can rise. And you better show ambition, 
that is, if you don’t want to be sent to Yonkers.” 

"Not me,” said Connie, "I mean to do a great sight better 
than Mr. Plykas.” 

"Same here,” declared Marge, "you’ll never catch me 
picking anything that common.” 

"Don’t say common” corrected Mary, "say common¬ 
place.” 

"It’s so hard to know what to say,” faltered Connie. 

"It certainly is,” admitted Mary, "our home life and sur¬ 
roundings so commonplace; and the Mem prissy and old 
fashioned, nothing smart in so much that they teach over 
there.” 

"Why isn’t it smart?” Marge asked. 

"Mrs. Cromwell doesn’t think we rate smartness. But 
I’m fooling her; and I’ll keep at it till I’m as correctly 
smart as any Park Avenue girl. We are all going to put 
it over that Cromwell woman yet and be able to meet her on 
her own level.” 

The twins caught Mary’s spirit—they warmed to it as to 
a game, competitive, a race to be won. If she could only 
hold them in this attitude, she thought—keep egging them 
on, appealing to the pride in them, the thing that put bull¬ 
dog in herself, that kept her from sinking! 

In a week, the honeymooners were home again; and no 
sooner had the flat door closed on them than they started 


393 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

squabbling over a matter of no importance. How queer 
marriage is, thought Mary, as she left the old home for 
Sutton Place. Mamma and Mr. Plykas had lived so peace¬ 
fully in sin with never a cross word nor look between them. 
The problem was dismissed—there were Mary’s own prob¬ 
lems to solve in Miss Elliot’s house. Above everything else, 
a girl in her shoes must sense when and where she was 
wanted, and when and where she would be as welcome as a 
sore thumb. She must measure how long to remain when 
she was wanted, what to say and what not to say. Landers, 
too, looked apprehensive as he took Mary’s bags and led the 
way to the two-room and bath guest suite on the third 
floor. Mary knew the recent history of this same suite, 
lately occupied by Mr. Robert Baker, a nephew of Miss 
Elliot’s, a young gentleman who came from Boston to enter 
Judge Ramsey’s law firm. The nephew lived but a month 
under the aunt’s roof. They didn’t get on so well; in fact, 
they were not on speaking terms at present. Yes, Mary 
knew a lot—she knew there had been other nephews and 
nieces, friends, the children of friends, cousins, et cetera— 
all, at one time or another, had settled themselves down in 
this suite. Nephew Robert had stayed about as long as any 
of the others. But Mary had decided to break the record; 
she would be a permanent guest. 

"Landers, I’ll only take one of the rooms, the sitting- 
room only and I’ll sleep on the couch. Sometimes, you 
know, Miss Elliot may have an overflow of guests, and the 
extra room may come in very handy.” 

"An old head on young shoulders,” burred the butler; 
"and, my wise little lass, you need your head here, you sorely 
need it.” 

"And, another thing, Landers, tell Nancy I’ll take care 


394 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

of my room and the bathroom. Neither Nancy nor Alice 
must think they have to do a hand’s turn for me. You 
know, Landers, I come of working people, and wouldn’t 
feel comfortable unless I was doing for myself. I think we 
understand each other, don’t we, Landers?” 

"We do that,” said the butler. “I’m industrial minded 
myself; I’m from Glasgow. My father was a glazier, my 
mother was a sempstress. And a tip, lass—young Mr. Rob¬ 
ert, the nephew, was too omnipresent, if you get what I 
mean.” 

"Thank you, Landers, and I’ll always be glad for any 
other tip you may have for me.” 

"And I will, I’ll have them from time to time.” 

One must creep before one may walk, never a truer 
saying than that, Mary told herself. But she would walk 
yet, she would step high and pretty. Now to get her things 
in order and establish the name of being neat and tidy. 
Opening a closet door, there were some of Mr. Baker’s 
things, a framed diploma among them. Poor fellow, the 
girl thought, young Robert had only Harvard to guide 
him! 


Chapter Twenty-Nine 


September found Mary impatient, feverishly impatient 
to see Lance, or rather, to have Lance see her in her new 
and correct setting. She had done so well this past summer, 
when Miss Elliot took her to Mount Desert—and not a 
single break, not a boner had Mary pulled. Of course, she 
had kept very much in the background, no chasing the 
Socialites, no pushing herself forward. To be useful was 
the main essential, a necessary companion to Miss Elliot, 
who couldn’t abide a personal maid and wouldn’t have one 
around her, not that she didn’t need such service when she 
travelled without Landers, Nancy, and Alice at her beck 
and call. The dear darling was a perfect baby when it came 
to packing a bag or trunk; and, like many others who think 
they are the very souls of system and order, Miss Elliot 
never knew where she left an article nor where to find any 
of her things; the type who would mislay her own head, 
if God hadn’t fastened it on her shoulders. 

But Mary was not listed as a personal maid; she had had 


3 95 


396 


A ROOF 


full hotel honors at Bar Harbor, always accepted as Miss 
Elliot’s secretary. Convenient secretary, not above wash¬ 
ing the Madame’s stockings, nor sewing the needful stitches, 
seeing to the laundry, all such practical attentions. Secre¬ 
tarial duties as well: answering the phone, keeping a date 
book, auditing and paying the hotel bills, and protecting 
Miss Elliot from people who bored her. 

But a background is not portable, unfortunately. Mary 
could go to Warren and see Lance, but what credentials 
had she to show? Certainly not her word—her word meant 
nothing, Lance had her down as a cheat and a liar. Then, 
suddenly, the break came—Miss Elliot wanted to make a 
survey of tourists’ camps and she wanted to see what there 
was in all this talk about a million people living in trailers. 
The fact that so many families had pulled up home roots 
and taken to life on wheels had social significance, she 
thought, a problem for serious investigation and study. 

The course of the proposed itinerary was left to Mary. 
Mary mapped to a purpose. And wasn’t Warren on the 
mapped route, just wasn’t it? Almost like another miracle— 
Mary Boots was going to meet Evan Lansing in Miss Elliot’s 
company. With Miss Elliot present as a witness, Mary 
meant to bring the conversation around to her residence 
in Sutton Place, her permanent home there. Wasn’t Miss 
Elliot her background, what better credentials should she 
have? But not a word of this to the lady herself—the whole 
thing must look accidental, Miss Elliot must get the im¬ 
pression that it was a chance running into Evan Lansing. 

The start was made on an early September morning— 
Mary at the wheel of one of the Elliot cars, a sedan. Miss 
Elliot, with her nutty ideas, was all against the Holland 




AGAINST THE RAIN 397 

Tunnel. Nothing would suit her but a detour, crossing to 
the Jersey side over the George Washington Bridge, miles 
out of the way. Landers also went along. With four pieces 
of hand luggage, he sat in the back seat, looking as if he 
were ready to commit murder, Mary thought. He had a 
baseball bat beside him and a gun in his pocket—Miss El¬ 
liot’s idea of road protection. As if the bags did not crowd 
Landers sufficiently, Godiva was added to the cargo which 
included two fire extinguishers, a precaution against a fire 
at night in a tourist cabin. Miss Elliot was that way, cer¬ 
tain to be prepared for any emergency on their trip. But 
that was she, a person with a lot of imagination. 

But Landers did not seem to have any imagination and all 
he could think of was how he was crowded. He never 
turned his head to look out either window, nor was he in¬ 
terested enough to look through the windshield—he might 
have been sitting in a closet for all that motoring meant to 
him. If he opened his mouth to speak at all, it was only to 
grumble at Godiva for crowding him more than necessary. 

The first day on the road Miss Elliot paid little attention 
to Landers’s fussing, her mind entirely occupied with seeing 
Mr. Morrissey in Washington and getting him back to the 
Ann. She had already tried three men to head up the Boys’ 
Work, and every one a flop, the last one, Mr. Farnsworth, 
the biggest washout of the bunch. Mr. Farnsworth fired 
himself, yesterday, after Miss Elliot told him he was an im¬ 
becile. But he put up quite a fight for his intelligence, and 
told her he had a diploma from the Social Service Insti¬ 
tute to prove he was not a mental defective. Miss Elliot told 
him that his diploma was the best evidence to the contrary, 
that she never knew a social service school that didn’t 
specialize in making imbeciles more imbecilic. 


398 


A ROOF 


The first night in the tourist camp near Washington 
was an experience to remember for a lifetime. Miss Elliot 
had picked out the biggest and cheapest as the most sig¬ 
nificant, a camp that rented double cabins for a dollar. 
There wasn’t a state in the Union that wasn’t represented 
by license plates on all and every old car. And how Miss 
Elliot took to the camp, the crowd, the situation—all ex¬ 
citement and interest, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed! 
She went over big, popular with everybody, talking with 
everybody. But Mary had to pity Landers, the poor man 
was so miserable and unhappy in the camp kitchen as he 
cooked the dinner. The dinner came from glass jars, very 
fancy stuff from a Fifth Avenue grocery. Miss Elliot car¬ 
ried quite a supply of choice provisions in one of the two 
trunks strapped to the rear of the car. Yet, very lofty was 
Landers to the other people in the kitchen—very distant, 
very superior, absolutely unapproachable. 

After dinner, Miss Elliot got in with the trailer portion 
of the camp, and not even Mamma could have done better 
at scraping acquaintance in such a short time. The trail- 
erites were a various assortment—commonplace, ordinary, 
intriguing, and a few that suggested creditable backgrounds. 
Many were talkative, ready to tell the world why they 
would never again tie themselves down to a house and 
taxes. This type had one fixed idea, that travel was the 
cheapest mode of living. All this was what Miss Elliot was 
looking for, right into her lap, so socially significant. She 
kept at it until midnight, out to get every Tom, Dick, and 
Harry’s viewpoint. But no thought for Landers’s viewpoint, 
the gaff Landers had to take, cooking in the camp kitchen 
with all those people around him. She could not even see 
the man was angry, full of deep resentment. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 399 

To make the cabin ready for the night, Landers carried 
in the trunk containing the blankets and bed linen, the ex¬ 
pression on his face like the wrath of God. The butler re¬ 
moved the bedding from both the cot beds, and Miss Elliot 
had him spray the mattresses thoroughly with disinfectant 
from a vapor-gun. After that, the two rooms were dis¬ 
infected—floors, walls, ceilings, every nook and cranny. 
All the time he worked, she nagged him, a shower of di¬ 
rections and suggestions, one after another. When the beds 
were finally made up with her own blankets and linen, Miss 
Elliot had Landers open a package of paper toilet seats and 
hand her two of them. A long walk to the W.C. followed, 
all of two city blocks’ length from the cabin. The place 
was obnoxious and a good thing they brought their own 
paper and the sanitary seats, as well as a flash-light. 

When Miss Elliot and Mary returned from the long walk, 
Landers had retired to his own room, taking Godiva with 
him. But he had left everything in order, nighties laid on 
the cots and toilet articles in place on the rickety bureau. 
Mary was asleep in no time, falling off while Miss Elliot 
brushed her teeth in White Rock water, afraid to trust the 
contents of the granite pitcher on the shaky-legged wash- 
stand. 

"Wake up, Mary, wake up, and get dressed!” 

But so hard to waken, even when Miss Elliot shook her 
shoulder. "Get up, get up,” the voice repeated. 

Mary became conscious of a strange room, an unshaded 
electric light, and Miss Elliot bending over her. 

"Get dressed as quickly as you can, Mary, hurry, we’re 
leaving here immediately!” 

"What time is it? It looks like night to me, Miss Elliot.” 


400 


A ROOF 


"It’s a little after three, and hurry into your clothes.” 

"Where are we going?” 

"To Washington, to a hotel. We must leave here at once. 
This place is simply impossible. And Landers is impossible. 
He has just given me notice. And I cannot lose Landers. I 
could never replace that pest from Scotland.” 

At that, she went to the door of the next room. "Do you 
hear me, Landers?” she called. 

"I hear you perfectly,” he answered through the door. 

"Landers, we must both act reasonably,” she went on. 
"I apologize, I’m sorry. Will you withdraw your notice if 
I promise to spend no more nights in tourist cabins? We’ll 
visit camps, but we will not lodge in them. Landers, if I 
promise to put up at hotels after this, will you withdraw 
your notice?” 

"All right, Miss Annie,” the butler answered through the 
closed door, "if you promise to lodge as befits a lady, not a 
savage, I may reconsider.” 

"I promise, Landers. Miss Boots and I are dressing now. 
We’ll drive to Washington and henceforth I abjure the 
lodgings of a savage.” 

"I woke up to find I had to take that long walk again,” 
Miss Elliot explained as she dressed. "At first, I thought I 
would call you to go with me, but then, I felt I’d be safer 
with a man behind me. I turned to Landers, naturally, and 
he complied grudgingly. But when we got back to the 
cabin, he broke down and told me that he had put up with 
a lot in my service, but this was too much—this was the 
last straw—and I must find myself another butler!” 

Mary said nothing. Inwardly she was all for Landers, 
high time Miss Elliot got some idea of her butler’s view¬ 
point. She got it, all right, and was being quite reasonable. 


AGAINST THE RAIN 401 

Landers is justified,” Miss Elliot said. "I should not 
have offended his personal dignity, his Scotch sense of the 
proprieties.” 

An indignant man still, Landers came in and removed 
the bedding. 

"'Either this stuff goes back to New York, or I will not re¬ 
consider my notice,” he announced, as he rolled up the 
blankets and sheets into a compact bundle. 

"The bedding goes back,” said Miss Elliot, meek as a 
kitten. "After this we will stop every evening at a tourist 
camp and hire a cabin, exactly as if we intended to pass the 
night there. But when I have made my survey, and the 
camp quiets down, we’ll slip away to the nearest town with 
first class hotel accommodations.” 

"There is still the matter of the dinner, Miss Annie; 
never again will I subject myself to the ordeal of the com¬ 
munity kitchen.” 

"Then we will dine later, Landers, after we reach the 
hotel.” 

"Very well, Miss Annie, I withdraw my notice,” said 
the butler. 

Miss Elliot took a four-room suite at a smart hotel in 
Washington. She was up at nine the next morning for 
breakfast with Mr. Morrissey. They sat together at a small 
table, a very jolly couple. Mary, at another table, could 
hardly believe her own ears as she heard them both laughing 
as Miss Elliot told Mr. Morrissey about Landers, about last 
night, the long walk, and the butler’s threat to leave. What 
a peculiar woman! And Mr. Morrissey almost as peculiar 
as Miss Miss Elliot! 

Mr. Morrissey claimed he couldn’t leave the Government 
and go back to the Ann. But that did not deter Miss Elliot 
—she wanted him and she meant to have him. She hung 


402 


A ROOF 


on, still arguing with Mr. Morrissey long after breakfast. 
Mary wanted to see the city. Landers wanted to see Mount 
Vernon and the tomb of Washington. The butler took the 
sedan. Mary and Godiva took a long walk. 

As a city, the girl thought little of Washington, nothing 
to compare with New York—not a single skyscraper, not 
a subway, not an elevated. The capital was very badly 
managed, traffic conditions something frightful—simply 
ridiculous, the way the cars were parked in the streets, the 
curbs lined with them. What could be the matter with 
Washington that it had no garages for private cars? It had 
no art appreciation, either—such undecorative statues at 
every second street crossing. They were statues of oldish 
men, ugly to begin with. And no end of them, bronze and 
marble gentlemen in suits that looked as if they had been 
slept in—and a pigeon roosting on each gentleman’s hat. 
You couldn’t tell whether it was a live bird or a part of the 
statue until you saw it answer a call of nature. Kind of 
funny, Mary thought, like insulting all the great generals 
and admirals of the nation, exactly as if doves, the birds of 
peace, wished to give expression to their pacifist principles. 
But such a vulgar thought—Mary dismissed it from her 
mind promptly. 

Very grouchy at dinner was Miss Elliot, in a huff at Mr. 
Morrissey, that most exasperating man. No, he wouldn’t 
go back to the Ann, he had told her, he had to stick with 
the Administration. There were some letters to be written, 
and a typewriter was sent up to the suite. When the letters 
were dictated and typed, several words did not appear cor¬ 
rectly spelled to Miss Elliot’s eye. And how unfortunate, 
Mary had forgotten to pack her dictionary! Then, the 
butler was consulted, and how Landers could spell, a per¬ 
fect walking dictionary! He knew history as well. At 


AGAINST THE RAIN 403 

Bull Run, the next day, he went over the battle ground with 
Miss Elliot and pointed out where this thing and that thing 
had happened in the big fight. That man certainly had 
everything at his finger tips—the names of high army of¬ 
ficers, the exact number of casualties on both sides! And 
how Miss Elliot humored him, always ready to stop and let 
Landers enjoy himself in lingering over a spot of historic 
interest! 

But Mary did not enjoy herself. How could she enjoy 
history, tourist camps, and social significances when she was 
keyed to concert pitch to reach Warren and see Lance? 
But the absurd delays continued—two weeks’ zigzagging 
before the Ohio state line was finally crossed. There Mary 
lost her direction for the first time on the trip. She took 
a wrong road on purpose, a road that brought her to the 
filling station of the dishonest dealer who had sold her the 
quart of oil she did not need, last December. By rare good 
luck, a man who knew Lance was on duty at the gas pump. 
Fortunately also, Miss Elliot had to go to the ladies* room. 
The man recognized Mary and was again communicative. 
Of all news in the world, the very last news she had ex¬ 
pected to hear—a month ago, Lance left Harris-Dietman— 
Lance was now in Brooklyn, working for Eimers & Hal- 
worth, manufacturing chemists! 

But that was all he knew—just that, no more. And here 
was Miss Elliot, back in the sedan and alarmed at the looks 
of the sky, declaring that a frightful rain would soon be 
upon them. 

Mary started the car, an aimless start this time. A few 
minutes later the clouds simply burst open—such a down¬ 
pour, a perfect deluge. 

"Landers,” Miss Elliot called over her shoulder, "what is 
the nearest town that should have a good hotel?” 


404 


A ROOF 


"Youngstown,” answered the butler; and recounted the 
city’s industries, its popoulation, native born, foreign born, 
and Negro. 

"Bother take your statistics, Landers! I want to know 
the name of the hotel.” 

Landers supplied the name of the town’s best hotel and 
quoted its room rates. No wonder Miss Elliot didn’t want 
to lose him, a butler, a dictionary, an encyclopedia, an atlas, 
a tourists’ guidebook! 

The poor darling had overdone herself, almost in a state 
of collapse by the time the hotel was reached. Landers 
wanted to call a doctor, but Miss Elliot would not listen 
to such a suggestion. Nor did Landers listen to her objec¬ 
tions—as usual, he had his way. Only a toxic condition, 
said the doctor; he prescribed rest and a high colonic ir¬ 
rigation. After her therapeutic treatment, Miss Elliot slept 
through the night and well into the following day, eighteen 
hours in all. 

The next night, not realizing how much she had slept, 
Miss Elliot got to fussing, claiming she could not close an 
eye. So Mary had to read a book to her, very heavy reading 
that had to do with the real cause of the country’s economic 
ills. The book made Miss Elliot very angry at the author, 
she blessed him and the publisher out for imbeciles and 
charlatans, working herself into a nervous state. At three 
in the morning, Landers was called in and told to sing. In 
Mary’s judgment, he gave a peculiar performance—yet, she 
rather liked his efforts, his low baritone voice. His technique 
was his own, more natural than cultivated. He did peaceful 
Scotch songs, about a dozen of them; and in the middle of 
"Loch Lomond,” Miss Elliot fell asleep. 

"She’s that way, off and on/’ Landers told Mary as they 


AGAINST THE RAIN 405 

tiptoed from the room. "My singing is a sedative to her, so 
to speak. However, she would not wish Judge Ramsey to 
know this. He would be sarcastic. A very cutting humor 
he has; and Miss Elliot would never want to give him the 
opportunity to crack any of his caustic jokes over my lulla¬ 
bies at her bedside.” 

Mary promised her silence—never, never a peep out of 
her. 

"I am very happy that I did not have to leave Miss Elliot,” 
he said then; "although a most trying lady. I did not 
serve my late notice on her from the point of the im¬ 
propriety of the service she asked of me. But I do insist 
that I be treated as a human masculine entity, not as a 
machine.” 

On in that strain the butler talked for some time. Years 
ago, he said, he had been with the old Doctor in Russia for 
two years. The Doctor, Miss Elliot’s father, was at one time 
in the diplomatic service, Landers explained—a very pop¬ 
ular person with the Russians, visiting them at their country 
estates. "In the old Russia of the czars,” he went on, "any 
personal service might be asked of a manservant. I have 
known them to attend the Madame at her bath. It was a 
great lesson to me, one I have never forgotten. It made me 
determined to be a man in a lady’s household, never a 
robot.” 

The next morning, Mr. Morrissey weakened when Miss 
Elliott called him up long distance; he finally promised 
to leave the Government and return to the Ann. Then, 
the wildest hurry and scurry, and back to New York by 
train. The sedan was shipped by express. But that was 
Miss Elliot all over. 


Chapter Thirty 


Such a nice person answered Eimers & Halworth’s tele¬ 
phone and Mary’s inquiry. He wanted her to hold the wire 
until he got Mr. Lansing for her. 

But no, Mary insisted, she wouldn’t think of taking up 
Mr. Lansing’s time during business hours—all she wanted 
was Mr. Lansing’s phone number. 

It was a Chelsea exchange—that meant Manhattan. 
Lance lived in Manhattan! Through Information, more 
details—the place was in Barrow Street in the Village, the 
telephone number itself was listed under the name of 
Mrs. Rose Moran. 

That evening, in her own car, Mary drove slowly past 
the Barrow Street number. She saw several young men on 
the stoop of the house. A rooms-to-let sign was in the 
front window. But no Lance, he wasn’t in sight. Even 
if he had been, she would not have called to him. With all 
his wild notions about her being in debt, it would never 
do for Lance to see her smart outfit and sporting a new 
Buick sedan. Lance must be approached very cautiously, 

406 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 407 

approached with no signs of extravagance to make him 
think that Mary was running into debt worse than ever 
before. The poorer she looked, the better. Never would it 
do to have Lance walk away on her as he had hung up on 
her. Then, too, before she saw him, she must clear the 
coast in Sutton Place—she must sound Miss Elliot out on 
whether the lady would be agreeable to meeting the son 
of a father who had lately received a ten years’ prison 
sentence. 

"Miss Elliot,” Mary maneuvered on her return to Sutton 
Place; "over a year ago, I met a young man, Evan Lansing. 
He was in Yale at the time, a Sheffield senior. I heard 
recently that he has come to New York; could I bring him 
here and have him meet you and Judge Ramsey?” 

"Produce him whenever you wish,” said Miss Elliot; 
"and high time you were getting interested in some young 
man or another.” 

"But his father was president of a bank and his father 
is now in jail for wrecking the bank.” 

"Splendid, Mary, I’m glad to hear that some bank 
wrecker is in jail at long last!” 

"Then, you will meet Mr. Lansing?” 

"Bother, Mary, haven’t I said I would?” 

The following evening, Mary donned a plain pongee suit 
with a stitched pongee hat, very inexpensive but very 
becoming. From the garage where she kept her car, she 
rented a topless old Ford roadster and drove to Barrow 
Street. Only one young man on the stoop this evening. 
No, Mr. Lansing was not in, Mr. Lansing had just gone 
out, the young man said. 

Then, another try, the next evening—the pongee suit 
and the old can of a roadster. An oldish woman answered 


408 A ROOF 

the doorbell. She thought Mr. Lansing was in and yelled 
his name from the bottom of the stairs. 

Lance’s own voice answered. 

"A young lady here to see you,” shrieked the woman. 

"I’m going back to my car,” said Mary, "and please tell 
Mr. Lansing that he will find me at the curb outside.” 

Oh, God, how she was trembling—all she could do to 
seat herself back in the Ford! Mary broke into almost 
frenzied prayer. "Oh, dear Jesus,” she breathed fer¬ 
vently, "please, dear Lord, open Lance’s mind to charity 
of thought towards me, give him a sense of fair play! 
If You open his mind, tonight, I will return divine charity 
with earthly charity, I will do the right thing by Mrs. At- 
tillos and Nannie Cody. I will raise Mrs. Attillos five 
dollars a week and Nannie, too. I have been a hard em¬ 
ployer, but I will turn over a new leaf if You will only 
make Lance open his heart and listen to me.” 

At the prayer’s conclusion, the young man appeared and 
stood at the curb by the roadster. 

"Hello, Lance, how are you?” Mary heard her own voice 
ask. 

He drew back a step—and looked, just looked at her. 

"Lance, won’t you speak to me?” 

"Mary!” All he said, just her name. 

"Can’t you say you’re glad to see me, Lance?” 

He balanced, back and forth, from heel to toe—but 
said nothing. How haggard he was, too old for his years, 
a boy no longer! The boy she had known was dead—old 
Mr. Lansing had killed that boy, murdered him, that devil 
of a bank wrecker. For God’s sake, here was poor Lance 
on his uppers, his clothes old and threadbare! But so re¬ 
spectable in appearance: neat, his linen clean, his old shoes 
polished. And his poor hands, all stained, his nails acid 



AGAINST THE RAIN 409 

eaten, his thumb bandaged. The poor darling so thin, 
every bone in his face showing! 

As Lance balanced back on his heels again, Mary noted 
the big hole on the sole of one shoe. The lace of the other 
shoes was knotted where it had broken. What poverty, to 
have to save a shoe lace! 

If she could only put her arms about him and tell him 
she loved him—tell him she was wealthy, that everything 
she had in this world was his! 

"Lance, can’t you say something to me?” Mary pleaded. 

He said nothing—just looked, kept looking at her. 

"Lance, you want to be fair with me—you do want 
to be fair, don’t you?” 

He broke his silence. "How haven’t I been fair?” 

"Are you fair, is it fair to hold all sorts of wrong ideas 
about me and not let me prove how wrong you are?” 

"Prove! Prove what?” 

"That I’m not as phony as I appeared on the surface. 
Please, Lance, please get into the car, please let me talk 
to you.” 

For a few moments, he hesitated, then got into the seat 
beside her. But not a word from his lips. 

"Lance, in a lot of things, I can see how I was at fault, 
how I gave you a wrong picture of myself at the beginning; 
and, then, I let things ride. But I was so flustered, I 
couldn’t get around to it, later on; there seemed too much 
for me to explain. I started out by funning—after all, 
Lance, we did start out that way, all funning each other, 
just as you said you would hunt up another riot and pitch 
me into it.” 

"You’re a queer girl, Mary, I just don’t get you.” 

"Maybe I’m not as queer as you think. Please, Lance, 
can’t we be friends again?” 


410 A ROOF 

"It’s all on a different basis now, Mary. I’m flat broke, 
I’m a small pay fellow.” 

"That’s no way to take the gaff, Lance, no way at all. 
You’re not the only person in the world who has to take it. 
I’ve had my dose and I didn’t let it sink me. My father 
was worthless; my brother is a juvenile delinquent in the 
Elmira Reformatory. But I took it, and I have lovely friends 
who respect me for what I am in myself. I took the gaff, the 
gaff you are now getting on account of your father.” 

Lance flushed, his back stiffened. "My father is not a 
thief,” he turned angrily on Mary; "my father was framed 
by his enemies.” 

"My brother wasn’t framed,” she came back, "my 
brother was guilty—and it hasn’t sunk me. Nothing can 
sink me. Please, Lance, come home with me and see the 
friends I have. Please, Lance, be fair to me, please give me 
a chance to clear myself.” 

Mary was upstairs in her room in Sutton Place, changing 
into a dream of a frock of beige net with a deeper-hued beige 
taffeta jacket. Downstairs, Lance was talking with Judge 
Ramsey in the library. Miss Elliot had not met Lance yet, 
she was already at Contract when Mary arrived with the 
young man in tow. The Judge recognized the name at 
once, placed him immediately as Jacob Lansing’s son. In 
another minute, Lance was giving his father’s side of the 
case to very willing ears. The girl withdrew—a hunch told 
her to leave the two alone together. 

As Mary fell to her knees in pious gratitude, there was a 
knock at the door. "Your mother is on the phone, she 
wants to talk to you,” the maid said. 

Wouldn’t that be Mamma though, breaking in on Mary’s 


411 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

great moment with heaven! Yet it might be important. 
She’d better take the call. 

It was important—Mrs. Boots wanted to know if Mrs. 
Attillos should be given the recipe for the mayonnaise and 
take over its entire preparation. 

"Never,” came the emphatic negation, "that recipe must 
be kept a close secret. Mrs. Attillos must not know what 
keeps the mayonnaise from curdling. If old Herman 
Schneider can get rich on that recipe, I want to make money 
on it, too. I’m as clever as Herman, and I’ll swing it yet.” 

"But, Mary dearie, you know my mixture turns sour in 
a week’s time. It could never stand up on the market.” 

"Yes, Mamma, I know it sours now, but it won’t sour, 
not after I find out the right preservative to put in it.” 

"I used to know what preservative Herman used when I 
worked for him, but it’s slipped my memory. I only re¬ 
membered that gum tragacanth kept it from curdling 
because the thing had such a queer name.” 

"Don’t you make one of Herman’s mistakes and let 
Mrs. Attillos know about the gum tragacanth!” 

"All right, dearie, and that reminds me—who do you 
think died today?” 

"What has that to do with the recipe?” 

"But the shock I got from it, dearie. I came into the 
Mem this afternoon, to attend the Women’s Club meeting, 
and who do you think I seen, carried out stone dead?” 

"Who—not poor Miss Merton?” 

"No, not her. Mrs. Cromwell’s uncle, if you remember 
him, old Mr. Johnson, was took with a heart attack in Mrs. 
Cromwell’s office and found dead in his chair. I seen the re¬ 
mains taken away as I came in. They took him off in an 
undertaker’s long wicker basket, and they was . . .” 


412 A ROOF 

The transmitter wavered in Mary’s trembling hand. 
"Good-bye, Mamma!” she gasped and hung up. 

Landers came down the stairs, surprised at the sight of 
Miss Boots leaning against the newel post, white as a sheet, 
her hands cold and trembling. The butler administered 
two fingers of Scotch and gave the girl a hand up the stairs 
to her room. 

Something about whisky, almost miraculous, the way 
it took hold and made the thought of the long wicker 
basket less frightful! How it cleared her head, thought 
Mary, how reasonable it made her! Mrs. Cromwell’s uncle 
was in the basket, that’s all Mr. Johnson was, Mrs. Crom¬ 
well’s uncle. Mr. Rorrick’s ceremony could mean nothing 
to Mary Boots, a hollow mockery, a rib-and-heel rigmarole. 

This, a wonderful night in Mary’s life, must remain won¬ 
derful. No, she wasn’t heartless, she was only acting like 
a sensible person. And what a perfect make-up! In the 
mirror of her dressing table, the girl studied her face, 
just the right amount of eye shadow—and a touch of rouge 
to the nose, the tiniest touch to define the nostrils. Then, 
to the mirror in the bathroom door. How lovely she was 
in a flounced net skirt, a taffeta jacket! Could any mortal 
man resist such a vision? 

Before mortal man got the vision, the vision sat down 
to serious thought and self-analysis. She could get by—she 
had her intellectual front, mused Mary. How hard she had 
worked for that front, ever since she returned from Ar¬ 
kansas! She could talk theatre now, all a matter of taking 
the trouble to read the dramatic criticism in "The Times” 
and remember a line or two, preferably from Mr. Brooks 
Atkinson’s opinions. You simply gave Mr. Atkinson’s 
opinion as your own, whether or not you agreed with him. 


413 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

Then, too, you read "The New Yorker” and repeated a 
line or two from its theatre reviews. And you despised Hol¬ 
lywood, except a few actors and actresses who were real 
artists. Of course you said nothing about what you really 
enjoyed in the movies. When it came to talk about books, 
you could say that you weren’t reading any new fiction 
lately, that you had been rereading the old writers these 
last few months. 

Mary took "Vanity Fair,” Judge Ramsey’s favorite book, 
from the top of her chiffonier. It might be all the Judge 
said, the greatest novel ever written. In Mary’s opinion it 
was just so much hooey: no girl as smart as Becky Sharp 
would have let life sink her. In real life, Becky would have 
landed herself in Easy Street, married to a lord or a rich 
banker. 

The library where Lance and Judge Ramsey sat talking 
gave to the hall through a wide archway. Lance faced the 
hall with a full view of the stairs. Mary knew he saw her 
descending, the book in her hand. At the foot of the 
stairs was a chair, upholstered in dark brocade—a perfect 
background for a blonde in a beige dress! Mary took the 
background, opened "Vanity Fair,” and gave an imita¬ 
tion of serious reading. 

Such a wonderful thought, such a bright idea—Lance 
was a chemist, Lance would know the right preservative 
for the mayonnaise! What money it would make, gum 
tragacanth to keep it from curdling, and what Lance would 
prescribe to keep it from souring! Could anything be more 
fortunate than having her own husband in on the busi¬ 
ness! And what a comeback for Lance, the chance to get 
rich again, manufacturing the salad dressing! She would 
make him president of the firm and keep herself in the 



414 


A ROOF 


shadow, as it were. Of course, she would manage the 
business and manage Lance, too, but make him think he 
was running everything—men had to be handled that way 
to keep up their ego. And, then, the four children they 
would have! Four children would make Lance more 
stable, cure him of any cock-eyed notions that a man 
shouldn’t make all the money he possibly could. Or maybe 
he was already cured of that, more practical in his ideas, 
adversity making another man of him. 

Then, another thought—suppose Uncle Henry would 
turn up some day? How terrible! No, never in the world 
could Mary marry Lance and not tell him about Mr. John¬ 
son! Yes, her husband would have to know, in case Uncle 
Henry should ever put in a personal appearance. 

But Lance must think it was a spite marriage. Cer¬ 
tainly, that was the right cue, a spite marriage—and he 
had driven her to it, he had driven her haywire when he 
hung up on her in New Haven. So cruelly treated, Mary 
vowed to marry the next man that asked her—and old Mr. 
Johnson happened to be the man. Very fortunate, too, 
that the poor old soul was dead and that Lance couldn’t 
demand the return of the alimony settlement. The money 
would be perfectly safe—the stock certificates could not 
be given back to a man in his grave. No, Lance could not 
object to a marriage in name only. Wasn’t he getting a real 
bride in Mary? He could go farther and fare worse, getting 
a girl who had been up and down the ladder already. 

Through the archway, Mary saw Judge Ramsey turn in 
his chair. 

"Hello, Mary,” he called; "you look far too pretty to be 
sitting alone out there! Won’t you join us?” 

Mary entered the library, book in hand, her finger be- 



415 


AGAINST THE RAIN 

tween the pages she had opened at random. How queer— 
she and Lance here together and in the presence of a big 
shot lawyer, her friend, this time! 

"What are you reading?” Lance asked. 

" 'Vanity Fair,’ ” said Mary; "it’s so fascinating, 1*11 be 
sorry when I finish it.” 

She saw the look of relief on Lance’s face—he fell for it, 
surprised and pleased that she was so intellectual. He was 
easy, she could put a lot over on him in the years to come. 
She would always outwardly agree with her husband, their 
home would be peaceful, she would be a wonderful wife. 
Lance certainly needed her, the type of woman who lifts 
a man’s ego and makes him feel he is a hell of a swell fel¬ 
low. And her good business head would make Lance a suc¬ 
cess, the president of a big manufacturing concern. It would 
take a lot of maneuvering, a lot of tricks; but worth it, 
every bit. The joy of it—to make Lance happy, successful, 
proud of himself! 

They were talking about "Vanity Fair,” Lance as crazy 
over the book as the Judge was. Becky was his favorite 
character in fiction, although he did not like nor admire 
her in the least. He said she was repellent, engagingly re¬ 
pellent, his exact words. In the discussion Mary concurred 
with both gentlemen in careful, noncommittal phrases. 

Finally, Lance rose to go. The Judge said not to dis¬ 
turb Miss Elliot, who was playing with three of her pet 
Contract hounds. "But, remember, Lansing,” he added, 
"Miss Elliot expects you for the week-end on Long Island.” 

"Thanks a lot, I’ll be on hand,” Lance promised. He 
said his good night to Mary with a lingering, squeezing 
hold on her hand. He’d have kissed her, she felt sure, 
if the Judge hadn’t been present. 


416 


A ROOF AGAINST THE RAIN 

"I like that young man,” Ramsey said later, in the music 
room; “Mary, he’s a fine, forthright fellow, and I want 
to do something for his father.” He broke off suddenly, 
and started playing “The Bluebells of Scotland,” singing 
as he played. 

In the midst of “The Bonny Lord of Moray,” he came to 
an abrupt stop. 

“Mary,” Ramsey announced, “Abner Johnson died this 
afternoon. Quite suddenly, in Mrs. Cromwell’s office.” 

“It is all for the best,” Mary responded piously. “You 
know, Judge Ramsey, his life was so unhappy. He took 
it so hard that nobody really loved him. God’s ways are 
not our ways—perhaps poor Mr. Johnson is happy now, 
with Jesus. I hope he is happy, that he is in heaven where 
he will be loved for himself, not for his money.” 

The man reached out swiftly, seized the girl by the 
shoulder, pulled her toward him. For a moment, Mary 
thought he would kiss her—but Ramsey had no such in¬ 
tention. Oh, how it stung through the filmy net skirt, the 
thin silk underslip! His hand so hard, the full force of 
his right arm in one terrific, spanking wallop! 

“That hurt!” she gasped between astonishment and 
pain. 

“I hope it did! And look here, young woman, if you 
ever dare to make another sanctimonious speech like that 
to me, you’ll get the thorough beating that’s been coming 
to you for a long time!” 

The piano burst into “The March of the Cameron Men.” 

Hector Ramsey played on. And with her thoughts, Mary 
Boots planned on and on—constructive thinking, cen¬ 
tered on happiness and success for herself and Evan Lan¬ 
sing. 











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